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BLOOD    MONEY 


BY 


JOHN  GOODWIN 

Author  of 
"The  Avenger,"  "Sealed  Orders,"  etc. 


^,'. 


HIS  is  a.  rattling  good  mystery  story,  a 
story  of  suspense  and  curiosity  from  the 
first  to  the  last  page.  In  England,  at  the 
present  day,  Lord  Trent,  poverty  stricken, 
with  only  his  castle,  invites  Elaine  Corbyn, 
a  young  American  heiress,  to  visit  him  for 
a  month  or  two  with  the  hope  that  his  son 
will  fall  in  love  with  her. 

The  girl  arrives  with  her  companion,  and 
the  son  promptly  falls  in  love  with  the  com- 
panion, which  his  father  tries  to  prevent 
unsuccessfully.  It  soon  becomes  evident  that 
the  two  women  have  come  over  from  Amer- 
ica to  escape  something  sinister,  and  the  old 
castle  becomes  a  center  of  a  series  of  fights, 
resulting  in  two  murders. 

The  story  now  becomes  a  fascinating  de- 
tective tale,  and  one  exciting  adventure, 
unexpected  and  almost  unbelievable,  follows 
another  until  eventually  the  murders  are 
solved.  Lord  Trent's  financial  difficulties 
overcome,  and  the  reason  why  the  beautiful 
Elaine  Corbyn  wanted  to  bury  herself  in  the 
old  castle,  and  what  she  feared  and  ran  away 
from  America  to  escape,  is  disclosed  to  the 
reader  in  this  tense  story  of  murder  and 
blackmail.  


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/bloodmoneyOOgowiiala 


BLOOD    MONEY 


BLOOD    MONEY 


hy 
JOHN    GOODWIN 

Author  of 

"  Dead  Man's  Treasure*' 

"  SeaUd  Orders;' 

etc. 


SEARS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

New  York  . 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  M<» 

I.  "Barring  Accidents"           .         .         .         .  i 

II.  The  Eavesdropper 5 

III.  The  Warning 11 

IV.  Elaine  Corbyn 18 

V.  In  Full  Cry 2a 

VI,  The  Check 28 

VII.  A  Pact  of  Silence      .        .         .         •         •  33 

VIII.  The  Home-Coming 41 

IX.  Mr.  Gordon  Crieff 46 

X.  Hard  Bargaining         .         .         .         .         •  5' 

XI.  Shadows  of  the  Night        .         .         .         '57 

XII.  Inspector  Begbie          .....  6a 

XIII.  Cross  Fire 71 

XIV.  Mrs.  Jessop 78 

XV.  Black  Spinney 85 

XVI.  Begbie's  Challenge 89 

XVII.  The  33  Bullet 96 

XVIII.  Spike  O'Dowd 102 

XIX.  The  Question 108 

XX.  The  Inquest 112 

XXI.  The  Face  at  the  Window  .         .         .119 

XXII.  The  Girl  and  the  Gun       .         .         .         .123 

XXIII.  The  New  Chauffeur 128 

XXIV.  Against  Orders 136 

XXV.  The  Open  Door 142 

XXVI.  Inspector  Palke          .         .         .         .        .  148 

XXVII.  The  Bullet         .         .         .         .         .         .  155 

XXVIII.  The  Three  Trails 164 

XXIX.  Mrs.  Jessop 170 


2135327 


CONTENTS 

CBAmm  PAOB 

XXX.  Lord  Trent  Returns 174 

XXXI.  The  Wesson  Pistol 180 

XXXII.  The  Will .185 

XXXIII.  Who  is  Michael  Power?     ....  19a 

XXXIV.  The  Cablegram 198 

XXXV.  Elaine's  Marriage 20a 

XXXVI.  Shadowed 209 

XXXVII.  The  Light  in  the  Lodge    .         .         .         .218 

XXXVIII.  The  Reporter 222 

XXXIX.  The  Moth  and  the  Candle         .        .         .  229 

XL.  The  Gunman 234 

XLI.  Jake  Maguire      ......  238 

XLII.  Kathleen    .......  244 

LXIII.  Michael      .......  249 

LXIV.  The  Man  who  Knew          ....  257 

LXV.  The  Final  Witness 265 

LXVI.  The  Trap 27a 

LXVII.  Conclusion 277 


BLOOD    MONEY 


*'BARRING  ACCIDENTS" 

W  H  A  T  I  disliked  about  the  man  was  that  he  moved  so 
silently. 

I  had  no  idea  Linke  was  near  me.  I  was  drowsing  before  the 
gun-room  fire,  the  cat  on  one  knee  and  the  spaniel  snoring 
at  my  feet.  It  was  the  only  home-like  room  in  that  great 
house.  And  there  was  already  a  resolve  forming  in  my  head 
to  quit.  .  .  .  Clear  out  of  this  tame  country  and  voyage  West 
again,  take  another  grip  at  fortune  with  both  hands.  They're 
big  hands  and  they  ought  to  be  able  to  hold  tight;  especially 
if  one  isn't  too  particular  about  the  way  they  get  there. 

My  eyes  were  closed;  I  smelt  the  dust  of  a  trail,  heard  the 
creak  of  harness,  felt  between  my  knees  the  heaving  flanks 
of  a  horse,  saw  the  plain  stretching  up  the  foot-hills  and  the 
Great  Range  beyond  .  .  .  and  then  a  word  dispelled  the 
vision  and  I  heard  Linke 's  respectful,  oily  voice  at  my  elbow. 

"His  lordship  wishes  to  see  you  sir." 

"Who?"  I  said,  opening  one  eye. 

"His  lordship,  sir — in  the  library." 

I  suppose  I  shall  never  get  used  to  hearing  Dad  called  that. 
But  there's  no  doubt  it  suits  my  father  very  well;  it  fits  him  like 
a  glove,  he  looks  the  part.  I  never  shall.  I  don't  even  want  to. 

When  the  footman  had  gone — I  have  no  idea  how  much  we 
owed  him  in  wages — I  got  up,  brushed  the  ash  from  my 
jacket,  and  started  for  the  door.  And  there  I  hesitated, 
scarcely  knowing  why.  I  wonder,  had  I  known  then  what 
was  to  come  of  that  commonplace  summons,  whether  I 
should  have  just  reached  for  my  hat  and  walked  out  of 
Stanways — turned  my  back  on  Fate?  Yet  at  the  time  I  had 


2  BLOODMONEY 

no  idea  that  Dad  wanted  anything  of  importance;  except 
perhaps  to  ask  me  if  I  had  any  small  change. 

Though  the  end  is  not  yet  in  sight,  so  many  unexpected 
things  have  happened  that  it  has  occurred  to  me  to  note 
down  a  record  of  them  in  the  hope  that  I  may  last  out  to  the 
finish — just  the  plain  facts,  for  I  have  not  any  imagination. 
I  am  still  wondering,  and  it's  my  theory  that  the  poUce  them- 
selves are  uncertain,  which  of  us  who  are  concerned  will 
feel  the  kindly  hand  laid  on  his  shoulder  and  take  that  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning  walk  .  .  .  just  ten  steps  into  the  next 
room  where  the  Prison  Chaplain  and  the  doctor  and  the 
gentleman  with  the  bandage  are  waiting.  Three  clear 
Sundays  after  the  trial. 

No,  there  couldn't  have  been  any  turning  back.  Even  if  I 
had  known  what  was  in  the  wind  I  should  have  gone  ahead. 
And  in  cutting  it  out  I  wouldn't  have  crossed  Jenny's  path. 
There  are  compensations;  there's  just  that  hope  and  glamour 
that  keeps  a  fellow's  head  up.  The  whole  thing  has  been  too 
wonderful  even  to  imagine  oneself  outside  it. 

So  I  walked  out  across  the  great  hall  of  Stan  ways,  on  what 
seemed  the  dullest  of  evenings  among  dull  surroundings, 
and  strolled  into  the  library.  I  can't  feel  the  reverence  I 
ought  for  Stanways.  The  absurdity  tickles  me;  that  this  great 
barrack  of  a  house  should  be  ours,  and  that  the  death  of  an 
uncle  and  a  remote  cousin  should  have  installed  Dad  as 
ninth  Lord  Trent  of  Denham,  leaving  him  at  the  same  time 
nothing  but  debts  to  bless  himself  with. 

I  found  my  father  sitting  in  the  big  chair  before  the 
library  fire,  and  except  for  the  admirable  cigar  he  was 
smoking  I  have  never  seen  anybody  look  more  like  a  portrait, 
by  an  old  master.  That  white  hair  of  his,  his  strong  clear- 
cut  features,  and  that  indescribable  air  of  distinction.  He  is 
the  only  living  person  for  whom  I  had  any  real  affection  and 
I  believe  he  returns  it,  though  we  have  not  much  in  common. 


BARRING     ACCIDENTS  3 

"Sit  down  Ken,"  he  said  amiably,  "and  have  a  cigar,  I 
called  you  in  to  tell  you  that  the  luck  has  turned.  I'm  a 
believer  in  luck — always  have  been." 

"Time  it  did  turn,"  said  I,  ignoring  the  cigars  and  filling 
an  old  briar  pipe. 

"You  haven't  struck  any  great  success  yet,  have  you." 

"If  that  last  show  in  Yukon  had  come  off  I  should  have 
•made  a  useful  little  fortune.  I  worked  like  the  devil  for  it." 

"And  came  out  of  it  with  scarcely  a  cent,  a  bullet  in  your 
shoulder,  and  urgent  enquiries  after  you.  You  call  two  or 
three  thousand  pounds  a  fortune.  Ken,  I  am  going  to  put  a 
fortune  in  your  way,  if  you  have  the  sense  to  take  hold  of  it." 

"I  can  take  hold  of  anything,"  I  said,  "if  the  scheme  isn't 
too  thick.  What's  the  amount?" 

''What  do  you  say  to  a  million?" 

I  looked  at  him  in  wonder.  There  was  a  thoughtful  smile 
about  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  but  he  was  entirely  cool, 
sane  and  serious. 

"When  one  is  very  hard  up — as  you  and  I  are — and  the 
chance  arrives  for  acquiring  a  considerable  sum,  one  cannot 
afford  to  be  painfully  puritanical  about  the  means  one  uses 
for  getting  hold  of  it." 

"Go  on  sir,"  I  said.     "So  far  the  court  is  with  you." 

"There  arrives  to-day  from  New  York,  I  understand — a 
girl,  twenty-three  years  of  age,  independent,  and  I  have  no 
doubt,  very  charming.  Her  name  is  Elaine  Corbyn,  and  she 
owns  at  least  four  million  dollars  in  her  own  right.  She  will 
be  our  guest  at  Stan  ways." 

I  shifted  in  my  seat.     I  began  to  feel  uncomfortable. 

"But  why?"  I  asked.  "I  don't  mean  from  your  point  of 
view,  but  what  does  she  expect  to  get  out  of  it?  Why  should 
she  come  here?" 

"As  a  paying  guest — ^very  paying  indeed.  Ken.  We  shall  be 
her  hosts,  she  will  be  under  our  protection.  She  wishes  to  see 


4  BLOOD    MONEY 

something  of  England,  to  be  properly  vouched  for,  and  of 
course  to  be  launched  in — such  society  as  Trent  of  Denham 
can  give  her  the  entree  to." 

I  looked  at  Dad.  Then  I  sat  back  and  laughed  till  the  chair 
shook. 

"You  know,  Father,  you  must  have  been  reading  yellow- 
backed  novels  dug  up  in  the  village  library!  You  surely  don't 
believe  there  are  American  women  who  would  pay  real 
money  to  stay  at  a  peer's  house — and  such  a  house  as  ours? 
If  you  do,  somebody's  been  stringing  you  along!" 

"You  are  wrong.  You  have  roughed  it  among  Western 
prospectors — useful,  horny-handed  people  who  live  on 
beans  and  bacon;  you  know  nothing  of  society  in  what  are 
now  the  wealthiest  centres  in  the  world,"  said  my  father 
calmly.  "I  spent  three  weeks  in  New  York  myself  last  year. 
Before  I  left — much  regretted  by  everybody — the  people  who 
really  count  were  most  charming  to  me,  though  I  was  not 
Trent  of  Denham  then,  but  just  Hugo  Rolfe.  I  paved  the  way. 

"And  to  prove  it,  my  boy,  the  whole  thing  is  already  fixed 
up  by  an  agent  of  mine  over  there,  and  she  arrives  to-night. 
Here  is  a  letter  from  her,  written  before  she  sailed." 

He  gave  it  to  me.  It  was  written  in  a  clear,  decisive  hand. 

"Dear  Lord  Trent, 

"Barring  accidents,  I  shall  arrive  at  Euston,  London, 
by  the  boat-train  on  the  25th.  I  shall  be  glad  if,  as  you 
suggest,  your  son  Mr.  Kenyon  Rolfe  will  meet  me  and  take 
me  to  Stan  ways. 

"It  is  understood  that  I  do  not  wish  anything  to  be  known 
about  my  intended  visit,  or  my  name  mentioned  to  anyone, 
when  I  actually  arrive.   Indiscretion  might  be  dangerous. 
"Please  treat  this  as  confidential. 

"Yours  very  truly, 

"Elaine  Corbyn." 


II 

THE  EAVESDROPPER 

This  letter  got  hold  of  me. 

Dangerous ! "  I  said .   "  Have  you  any  idea  what  she  means 
by  that?" 

"No,"  said  my  father  after  a  pause. 

"This  is  a  girl  who  knows  her  own  mind,  and  her  way 
about,  anyhow,"  said  I.  "Who  on  earth  is  she?" 

"I  can  give  you  one  solid  fact  that  you  can  rely  upon," 
repeated  my  father  patiently,  "for  I've  satisfied  myself 
about  it  formally — she  has  four  million  dollars.  A  very 
desirable  guest." 

"And  she's  really  coming  to  this  house — alone?" 

"Not  entirely  alone.  I  understand  she  is  bringing  a  woman 
companion  with  her;  an  attendant  of  some  sort.  I  don't 
know  who  it  is — possibly  a  distressed  gentlewoman.  I 
don't  know  whether  gentlewomen  become  distressed  as 
easily  in  America  as  they  do  here." 

"But  seriously  Dad,  whoever  Elaine  Corbyn  may  be,  and 
however  large  her  bank  balance,  what  do  you  expect  to  get 
out  of  her  and  how?" 

"You  are  a  little  dense  to-night,  Ken,"  said  my  father 
quietly,  "leaving  all  other  questions  aside,  it  is  of  course 
my  suggestion  that  you  should  marry  her." 

I  rose  slowly  out  of  my  chair. 

"Marry  her!" 

"Why  yes.  Eight  hundred  thousand  would  support  you 
very  comfortably.  And  Stanways  into  the  bargain." 

I  stared  at  him  blankly. 

"It  doesn't  occur  to  you  Dad,  that  she  is  likely  to  have 
different  views  for  herself?" 

"Turn  a  little  away  from  the  light,  Ken.  Yes.  You  are 


6  BLOOD    MONEY 

unusually  good-looking;  you  have  that  kind  of  laughing, 
devil-may-care  air  that  fits  a  man  to  face  whatever  turns  up 
and  make  the  best  of  it.  You  are  attractive.  And  a  big,  hefty 
fellow  at  that;  what  the  Westerners  call  a  hundred-per-cent 
man.  You  have  never  had  quite  the  manner  I  would  have 
liked  you  to  have;  one  sees  very  little  left  in  you  of  Winchester 
and  Oxford  .  .  .  but  that  may  be  all  to  the  good.  Anyway 
you  are  a  Rolfe;  you  will  eventually  be  Lord  Trent  of 
Denham " 

He  paused  a  moment  and  waited. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  Ken?"  he  said,  eyeing  me 
curiously.  "You  remarked,  only  yesterday,  you  were  so  sick 
of  being  hard  up  that  you  would  let  nothing  that  looked  like 
money  get  by  you.  That  you  were  ready  to  hold  up  a  bank, 
or  marry  a  girl  with  money  enough  to  put  you  out  of  reach 
of  trouble.  I  wouldn't  recommend  the  first  scheme;  that's 
immoral,  besides  it's  unsafe.  But  as  for  the  other — I'm  giving 
you  the  chance  of  a  Hfetime." 

Well,  a  man  may  say  a  thing  like  that,  and  mean  it,  at  the 
time.  But  to  have  it  set  right  down  in  front  of  you  is  a 
different  matter,  and  every  complex  in  me  rose  up  in  revolt 
against  it. 

"Listen,"  I  said,  "I  want  to  point  out  something  you've 
overlooked.  Look  at  that  letter  again.  There's  more  in  this 
than  any  commonplace  paying-guest  affair.  There's  some- 
thing very  queer  about  this  business." 

"Exactly.  Something — queer.  Well,  that  you'll  presently 
discover,  and  it  is  going  to  be  a  great  help  to  you. 
Besides,"  he  added  whimsically,  "mystery — perhaps  peril — 
romance " 

I  was  not  listening  to  him,  I  had  a  sudden  and  vivid  con- 
viction that  we  were  not  alone;  that  the  library  was  not  quite 
so  private  as  he  supposed. 

I  could  have  sworn  I  heard  just  the  faintest  possible  rustle 


THE     EAVESDROPPER  7 

against  the  closed  door.  Without  being  especially  thin- 
skinned,  I  felt  that  our  conversation  was  the  very  last  that  I 
should  wish  anybody  to  overhear. 

The  conviction  was  so  strong  that  I  stepped  to  the  door 
and  snatched  it  suddenly  open,  as  quick  as  a  flash.  .  .  . 

If  this  were  a  film  story  instead  of  a  record  of  facts,  no 
doubt  a  crestfallen  eavesdropper  would  have  tumbled  into 
the  room  on  his  face.  Nothing  of  that  sort  happened.  As  soon 
as  the  door  was  open  I  looked  up  and  down  the  passage.  It 
was  empty.  Yet  I  felt  certain  I  had  been  right. 

If  there  had  been  a  listener  he  was  an  uncommonly  quick 
and  efficient  one — too  quick  for  me.  I  followed  along  to  the 
open  door  of  the  little  hat  and  coat  lobby  a  few  yards  down 
the  corridor,  without  losing  a  moment. 

And  there  was  Linke,  the  footman,  sedately  brushing  my 
father's  brown  Homburg.  I  looked  him  over  thoughtfully, 
before  speaking. 

"Linke,"  I  said,  "are  you  a  professional  in  the  matter  of 
keyholes,  or  just  an  amateur?" 

He  turned  to  me  with  respectful  astonishment. 

"I  am  afraid  I  don't  understand  you  sir." 

"Don't  you?" 

My  eye  strayed  again  to  his  right  trouser-knee;  on  the 
black  of  the  cloth  was  a  tiny  fleck  of  crimson  silk.  There 
is  a  crimson  floss  rug  outside  the  library  door.  I  looked  at 
his  bland,  dark  face,  his  attitude  and  expression  were  so 
perfectly  correct.  And  such  a  wave  of  wrath  and  humiliation 
urged  up  in  me,  that  if  he  had  uttered  another  word  I 
should  certainly  have  pitched  him  through  the  window  on  to 
the  drive. 

He  maintained  his  respectful  silence.  I  turned  abruptly 
and  went  back  to  the  library.  There  was  no  use  in  saying  or 
doing  anything  more.  My  father  had  not  moved  from  his 
chair. 


8  BLOODMONEY 

"Someone  listening?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"Linke,  of  course?" 

"Yes,  Linke.  How  long  have  you  had  that  man?" 

My  father  pressed  the  bell-push,  and  after  a  brief  interval 
the  footman  appeared. 

"Linke,"  said  my  father  quietly.  "You  have  been  ten  days 
in  my  service,  I  believe.  You  will  leave  it  within  the  hour. 
Go  to  the  housekeeper  for  your  week's  wages  in  advance, 
and  get  out." 

The  man  looked  so  wounded  and  surprised  that  I  decided 
I  had  been  mistaken  about  him.  He  began  to  protest  and  ask 
for  reasons.  My  honoured  parent  is  usually  mildness  itself. 
His  voice  could  not  have  been  quieter,  but  I  have  never  seen 
any  man's  eyes  look  more  dangerous  than  his  did  at  that 
moment,  as  he  turned  them  on  Linke. 

"I  have  done  my  best  to  give  satisfaction  here.  I " 

"You  will  give  me  more  satisfaction  when  you  are  out  of 
the  house,"  said  my  father.  "Be  off  the  premises  before 
eight  o'clock." 

Linke  who  was  very  pale,  took  one  look  at  him  and  said 
no  more.  He  made  a  sad,  crushed  little  bow  of  submission, 
and  went  out. 

"I  hope  the  housekeeper  has  funds  enough  to  pay  him," 
said  Dad,  moving  to  a  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth, 
"I  suppose  you  haven't  any  change  about  you  Ken?  To 
return  to  matters  of  importance — you  had  better  get  away 
yourself  now,  time  is  running  short;  and  remember  my  boy 
when  you  meet  Miss  Corbyn  that  first  impressions  are 
everything,  you  should  take  care  to  make  as  good  a  one  as 
you  can.  I  advise  you " 

"Great  heavens!"  I  said  in  exasperation,  "you're  surely 
not  sticking  to  that  idea  .  .  .  even  if  there  were  nothing  else 
to  it,  this  flunkey  of  yours  heard  what  we  said — heard  us 


THE     EAVESDROPPER  9 

talking  about  the  girl  the  way  we  were  ...  it  made  me  sick, 
and  I  can  tell  you  I  came  pretty  near  to  wringing  his  neck " 

"Nonsense,"  said  my  father  calmly,  "neither  of  us  raised 
our  voices — as  you  are  doing  now  in  your  excitement." 

"You  think  he  didn't  hear  us,"  said  I,  hoping  devoutly  it 
was  so. 

"I'm  pretty  certain  he  heard  nothing  that  need  concern 
you;  if  I  thought  he  did  I  would  take  steps  myself;  though 
really  what  does  it  matter  what  a  fellow  of  that  type  hears  or 
does  not  hear?  Get  your  mind  clear  of  it.  Of  course  you're 
going  ahead  with  this,  Ken.  You  may  think  you're  not,  but 
you  are — facts  are  going  to  be  too  strong  for  you.  And  I 
prophesy  you'll  find  it  very  pleasant  and  attractive." 

"Look  here,"  said  I,  "I  had  quite  settled  that  it  wouldn't 
do,  when  you  first  put  it  to  me.  But  now — ^will  you  under- 
stand finally  that  I'll  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it!" 

"Ken,"  he  said  gently,  "there's  another  reason,  though  I 
hate  to  mention  it.  We  care  a  good  deal  for  each  other,  you 
know,  we've  always  been  loyal.  A  year  ago  I  gave  you  my 
help — not  for  the  first  time — I  pulled  you  out  of  the  tightest 
kind  of  place — did  I  not — at  a  certain  risk  and  a  heavy 
sacrifice  to  myself." 

That  was  true  enough. 

"Well,"  said  my  father,  "I  am  in  a  tighter  place  now  than 
ever  you  were,  Ken,  and  unless  help  of  some  sort  arrives 
pretty  soon  ;  unless  something  happens  on  the  big  scale,  I'm 
up  against  disaster  so  thorough  that  it  doesn't  bear  thinking 
about." 

"Whatever  it  is,"  said  I,  "you  know  I'll  stand  by  you." 

He  got  up,  and  laid  a  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"My  boy,"  he  said  affectionately,  "you  know  I'm  not 
trying  to  drive  you;  I've  never  done  that  in  my  life,  and  we're 
neither  of  us  the  sort  that  can  stand  driving.  Shelve  the 
idea  for  the  present  then — don't  worry  about  it.  But  you've 


10  BLOODMONEY 

said  you'd  help  me;  I  hold  you  to  that — just  get  along  and 
meet  Miss  Corbyn  and  bring  her  here.  I'm  not  asking  so 
much  of  you.** 

"Of  course,  I'll  do  that." 

"You  had  better  hurry.  The  8.55  Euston;  you've  barely 
an  hour  and  a  half." 

"Why  on  earth  have  you  sprung  a  big  thmg  on  me  at  the 
eleventh  hour?" 

My  father's  cheek  twitched.  He  gave  a  confident  little 
laugh. 

"You  won't  let  me  down,  now.  If  it  had  been  broached  too 
early,  you  might  have  brooded  over  it  till  you  got  scared 
about  this  girl,  and  probably  bolted — you  great  oaf  I" 

I  should  say  he  was  not  far  wrong.  As  it  was,  I  went  out 
and  got  myself  ready.  I  had  not  the  least  idea  what  prepara- 
tions one  should  make  for  meeting  a  female  paying  guest 
with  four  million  dollars.  So  I  just  put  on  my  cap  and  ulster 
and  made  for  the  garage. 


Ill 

THE  WARNING 

W^  E  had  no  chauffeur  at  Stanways  then  :  we  drove  our- 
selves, and  the  care  of  the  car  was  my  job.  As  I  came  out  by 
the  side  entrance  twenty  minutes  later  and  passed  the  back 
steps  I  caught  sight  of  Linke,  standing  alone,  in  the  gloom. 

He  was  muffled  in  an  overcoat,  and  there  was  something 
so  forlorn  and  unhappy  in  the  fellow's  attitude  that  I  paused. 
He  had  been  prompt  enough  in  obeying  the  order  to  leave. 
He  had  no  luggage  with  him,  it  had  probably  been  piled  on  to 
the  carrier's  lorry  that  calls  at  seven-thirty.  The  man  looked 
a  picture  of  desolation. 

I  had  troubles  enough  of  my  own  to  keep  me  busy,  but  I 
was  feeling  a  certain  uneasiness  about  Linke.  It  stuck  in  my 
mind  that  I  might  have  been  altogether  mistaken  about  him, 
and  if  so,  he  had  been  given  rather  a  raw  deal.  I  feel  a  sort  of 
unreasoning  sympathy  with  any  man  who  draws  another 
man's  wage,  and  can  be  thrown  out  at  will. 

"So  you're  adrift,  Linke?"  I  said. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Got  another  job  in  view?" 

"No,  sir." 

I  have  been  adrift  myself.  And  on  the  impulse  I  said  : 

"Would  a  couple  of  pounds  help  you  to  tide  things  over?" 

"Two  pounds?  Thank  you,  sir,"  he  said  suavely.  "Twenty 
would  be  more  useful,  at  the  moment." 

At  that  I  stopped  dead.  Once  more  I  revised  my  estimate 
of  Linke.  I  have  had  many  varied  experiences,  but  this  one 
was  new  to  me. 

It  was  particularly  curious  that  he  should  have  mentioned 
twenty  pounds — evidently  the  man  thought  he  knew  some- 
thing that  was  worth  that — for  I  had  just  that  sum  in  my 


12  BLOODMONEY 

note-case;  it  was  pretty  nearly  all  I  possessed  except  a  battered 
gold  watch  and  some  small  change. 

"At  the  moment?"  I  said  slowly. 

"As  an  instalment  against  further  benefits  a  little  later 
on,  Mr.  Rolfe,"  said  Linke,  "and  you  will  find  it  will  pay  you 
pretty  well;  but  of  course  if  you  prefer " 

"Linke,"  I  said,  "the  two  pound  offer  is  withdrawn.  You 
are  going  to  have  the  hiding  of  a  lifetime." 

I  suppose  that  to  come  to  one's  hands  with  a  discharged 
servant  is  another  of  those  things  that  no  gentleman  ever  does. 
There  may  be  people  who  can  receive  the  demand  of  a  black- 
mailer with  serenity  but  I  am  not  one  of  them.  I  think  he 
was  quite  as  astonished  at  the  way  I  took  it  as  I  had  been  at 
his  proposal  ;  my  temper  had  been  pretty  well  roughed  up 
already.     Folks  who  ask  for  this  sort  of  thing  ought  to  get  it. 

Linke  managed  to  duck  under  my  swing,  and  the  next 
moment  I  had  clinched  with  him. 

But  directly  I  had  him  in  my  hands  he  went  all  limp  in 
them.  He  was  tall  and  bulky  but  there  was  no  fighting 
balance  in  the  man  at  all;  he  collapsed.  And  one  cannot 
decently  thrash  a  jelly.  I  spun  him  round  and  applied  my 
foot  once,  releasing  him  at  the  same  moment.  He  was  pro- 
pelled quite  an  appreciable  distance  and  subsided  at  full 
length  on  the  flower-bed  across  the  gravel  path. 

"If  there's  another  word  from  you  about  that,"  I  said 
through  my  teeth,  "you'll  get  hurt,  instead  of  being  played 
with." 

He  seemed  satisfied.  He  got  up  with  unexpected  speed, 
almost  in  one  motion,  and  darted  away  into  the  darkness  with 
a  snarl.  It  sounded  to  me  more  like  the  snarl  of  a  beast  than 
a  man. 

I  stared  after  him — the  evening  was  certainly  full  of 
surprises.  I  was  lightly  shod  and  the  sole  of  my  foot  was 
tingling;  it  had  impacted  on  a  hard  unyielding  object  in 


THEWARNING  I3 

Linke's  hip  pocket.  Linke  must  have  been  tingling  too,  for 
the  kick  was  a  hearty  one.  It  is  to  be  hoped  it  did  him 
good  ;  it  certainly  did  me  good,  I  felt  immensely  soothed. 

A  pocket-flask — if  the  hard  object  was  that — is  an  un- 
usual thing  for  a  footman  to  carry,  especially  if  he  has  a  key 
to  the  pantry.  But  so  is  an  automatic  pistol.  However  I  did 
not  worry,  for  I  had  recently  come  from  a  country  where 
both  these  equipments  are  less  uncommon  than  they  are 
here.  I  considered  I  was  rid  of  Linke.  One  does  make  these 
errors. 

But  as  I  turned  away  I  glanced  up  at  the  open  lighted 
window  overhead — the  back  window  of  the  library — and 
halted.  A  shadow  flitted  away  from  the  blind.  Someone,  it 
seemed  to  me,  had  heard  what  Linke  said,  and  also  what 
happened  to  Linke.  That  did  not  trouble  me  either.  I  had 
done  the  only  thing  that  I  felt  could  be  done,  and  I  wanted  to 
get  away.  In  a  few  minutes  I  had  the  car  out  and  was 
humming  along  the  park  road,  feehng  considerably  better. 
In  fact  I  remember  laughing  aloud  as  I  turned  through  the 
gates  and  trod  on  the  accelerator. 

Linke's  action  did  rather  puzzle  me.  To  make  a  confident 
attempt  at  blackmail  like  that,  he  must  surely  give  me  credit 
for  some  knowledge  which  I  didn't  possess.  I  didn't  see 
how  he  could  have  done  it  solely  on  the  strength  of  what  he 
may  have  overheard  at  the  library  door.  Yet  I  was  not  sure. 
On  the  face  of  it  it  looked  like  the  action  of  a  fool,  but  I  was 
convinced  Linke  was  no  fool.  He  might  have  made  a  blunder, 
which  is  a  different  thing  .  .  .  the  sharpest  rogues  make  those 
sometimes.  Perhaps  I  had  forced  his  hand  in  some  way  by 
catching  him  eavesdropping  and  getting  him  fired.  Certainly 
the  best  thing  for  everybody. 

Better  still  to  wash  the  whole  affair  out  of  one's  mind 
altogether,  it  didn't  really  concern  me.  I  dropped  the  windows 
of  the  car  and  opened  the  screen,  letting  the  rush  of  cold 


14  BLOODMONEY 

clean  air  roar  past  me.  It  seemed  to  sweeten  things  up,  and 
blow  the  annoyance  and  bitterness  out  of  my  head.  The 
park  and  its  gloomy  elm  trees  was  left  behind,  I  threaded 
through  the  by-ways  and  soon  swung  sharp  to  the  right  and 
was  spinning  at  full  speed  along  the  Great  North  Road. 

It  was  good  to  be  moving  again  .  .  .  and  that  car  could 
move;  an  eight  Chrysler  saloon.  I  don't  know  how  we  came  to 
have  a  Chrysler,  I  remember  wondering  how  Dad  had  raised 
the  money  for  the  first  instalment.  However,  he  has  his  own 
methods,  and  as  for  me  I  take  these  things  as  they  come, 
without  question.  Stanways  is  in  Hertfordshire,  forty  miles 
from  Town  ;  I  could  make  Euston  in  the  hour  even  allowing 
for  the  London  traffic;  it  meant  travelling  at  sixty  the  greater 
part  of  the  way.  Speed  sharpens  the  faculties;  I  can  think 
best  when  going  an  even  sixty.  But  what  was  there  to  think 
about?  I  felt  more  inclined  to  chuckle. 

I  had  given  my  father  a  straight  refusal;  but  I  was  beginning 
to  feel  intensely  intrigued  and  interested.  Eight  hundred 
thousand  .  .  .  the  beat  of  the  car's  engine  seemed  to  sing  it 
aloud  as  she  soared  along  over  the  high  chalk  downs  before 
the  drop  into  Stevenage  village.  Eight  hundred  thousand  .  .  . 
Call  it  a  cool  million. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  drive.  The  night  wind  blowing 
free;  broad  away  to  the  right  the  blood-red  of  the  afterglow 
tinged  a  bank  of  dark  clouds.  Eastwards  through  the  left 
window,  the  purple  black  of  the  sky  washed  with  silver  by  a 
rising  moon.  Due  south  and  ahead  the  vaguer,  vaster  glow  of 
the  lights  of  London.  I  felt  a  sense  of  something  impending; 
something  that  I  could  not  measure. 

That  red  glow  to  the  right  seemed  to  bear  me  company  all 
the  way,  never  fading  from  the  sky,  as  I  turned  into  the  great 
arterial  road  beyond  Welwyn  and  let  the  car  rip,  till  I  slowed 
up  in  the  streets  of  Hendon  and  out  through  prosaic  Regent's 
Park  into  the  roar  of  the  traffic  .  .  .  fifty-five  minutes  from 


THE    WARNING  15 

Stan  ways;  the  Magic  Carpet  of  Bagdad  has  nothing  on  the 
modern  car. 

I  parked  her  at  the  arrival  stage  at  Euston  and  locked  the 
steering-wheel.  The  usual  loafer  appeared  at  my  elbow,  as 
if  from  nowhere. 

"Look  after  the  car  for  yer,  sir?" 

I  nodded  assent.  I  have  had  too  many  losses  from  light- 
fingered  folks  in  London  to  grudge  the  tip  for  having  one's 
'bus  watched  when  she  is  left  alone.  I  passed  through  to  No. 
7  Platform. 

At  Euston  I  always  feel  at  home;  I  use  the  line  a  good  deal; 
even  the  loafer  was  an  old  acquaintance,  and  a  porter  saluted 
me  as  I  went  through. 

The  boat  train  was  late.  I  bought  a  paper  and  stood  by  the 
barrier  awhile,  reading  the  football  news.  Here  in  London, 
with  these  prosaic  surroundings  to  remind  me  how  common- 
place life  is,  the  puzzling  events  at  Stanways  faded  out  to 
nothing.  It  seemed  useless  to  attach  any  importance  to  them. 
I  was  here  as  an  unpaid  chauffeur  to  bring  a  guest  home  to  my 
father's  house;  that  was  all  there  was  to  it. 

While  I  was  absorbed  in  the  reporter's  account  of  a  goal 
smartly  scored  against  the  English  team  by  Scotland  some- 
one touched  me  on  the  arm,  and  I  looked  down  at  a  small 
boy  with  a  sharp  and  picturesquely  dirty  face,  who  held  an 
envelope  half  concealed  in  one  paw. 

"This  here's  for  you,  guv 'nor.** 

"Yes,"  I  said  warily,  "what's  the  idea?" 

"Dunno.  Gent  over  there  by  the  bookstall  gave  it  me,  told 
me  to  pass  it  across  to  you,  and  sloped  off.  He  gave  me  a 
shilling,  an'  I'm  to  get  another  from  you.  That's  all." 

"Try  somethin'  easier,"  I  said.  "It's  cattle-show  week, 
you'll  show  a  good  profit  if  you  keep  on  doing  this." 

"Well,  that's  what  he  said  and  I  don't  know  'im  no  more 
than  I  know  you,"  said  the  boy  resentfully,  and  held  up  tlie 


l6  BLOOD    MONEY 

envelope  so  that  I  could  read  it.  "Mr.  Kenyon  Rolfe." 
"That  your  name  or  ain't  it.  He  marked  you  an'  told  me  to 
hand  it  across." 

I  did  what  I  suppose  anyone  else  would  have  done  in  my 
place,  gave  him  the  shilling,  and  found  in  the  envelope  a 
sheet  of  note-paper  such  as  one  buys  at  the  railway  book- 
stall; it  carried  a  message  of  three  lines  in  a  neat,  copy-book 
round-hand,  written  with  an  indelible  pencil. 

"Unless  you  are  a  fool  you  will  keep  out  of  matters  which 
you  do  not  understand.  Take  this  for  a  first  and  final  warning; 
if  you  set  any  value  on  your  life  leave  Elaine  Corbyn  alone." 

I  read  this  cool  piece  of  impertinence  and  burst  into  irre- 
pressible laughter,  startling  an  old  lady  beside  me,  who 
moved  away  indignantly.  I  looked  round  for  the  boy.  He  had 
disappeared  with  my  shilling. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  stepped  straight  out  of  everj'- 
day  life  into  the  middle  of  a  mystery  story — the  sort  of  thing 
that  everyone  reads  but  that  can  never  possibly  happen. 
Who  was  the  lunatic  who  had  sent  me  this  message?  He  must 
have  some  reason  for  it;  no  one  could  do  such  a  thing  without 
a  motive.  It  struck  me  that  there  are  people  with  such  a 
sense  of  the  melodramatic  that  they  can't  help  making  use  of 
it,  even  when  they  are  most  in  earnest.  I  have  met  with  them 
before — the  actor  type. 

Was  it  his  idea  that  he  could  scare  me?  It  did  not  seem 
likely  that  this  had  any  connection  with  the  unspeakable 
Linke— whom  I  had  left  forty  miles  behind.  Perhaps  this  was 
an  opposition  firm.  And  yet  it  was  a  little  difficult  to  separate 
the  two  in  one's  mind. 

It  suddenly  came  home  to  me  that  I  was  intended  to  take 
this  warning  very  seriously.  I  glanced  at  the  note,  and  was 
about  to  rip  it  across  and  toss  it  away,  when  I  thought  better 


THEWARNING  I7 

of  that  and  stowed  it  carefully  in  my  letter-case.  With  any 
luck  I  might  get  to  close  quarters  with  the  sender:  then  I 
could  make  a  definite  response. 

For  the  first  time,  the  scheme  that  my  father  had  put 
forward  took  a  clear  shape,  and  began  to  appeal  to  me. 
This  mysterious,  insolent  opposition  acted  like  a  spur.  I  felt 
a  decisive  interest  in  the  unknown  Elaine  Corbyn,  and  a 
desire  to  get  next  to  her. 

The  boat  train  had  arrived,  and  the  platform  was  in  a 
turmoil.  I  passed  through  the  barrier.  My  instructions  were 
a  little  vague,  but  there  was  no  real  difficulty  about  it.  In  a 
few  minutes  I  had  found  her. 


IV 

ELAINE  CORBYN 

1  H  E  L  D  back  for  a  brief  interval  to  be  sure  I  was  making  no 
mistake,  and  to  get  an  impression  of  her.  For  now  I  felt  sure 
that  the  step  I  was  about  to  take  was  going  to  make  a  big 
difference  in  my  life. 

Elaine  Corbyn  was  standing  beside  a  large  pile  of  very  new 
and  expensive-looking  baggage.  I  took  stock  of  her  as  the 
hunter  does  when  he  is  stalking  an  exceptional  quarry.  She 
was  rather  above  the  average  height,  and  carried  herself 
well;  she  wore  a  costly  mink  mantle,  and  there  was  rather 
an  arrogant  little  air  of  command  about  her.  Of  her  good 
looks  there  was  no  doubt  at  all. 

Her  features  were  small  and  regular,  her  chin  firm;  her  hair 
that  dark  coppery  auburn  that  goes  so  well  with  a  very  white 
skin.  Bright,  darkish  hazel  eyes,  very  wide  and  alert,  that 
missed  nothing.  She  was  strikingly  attractive;  I  felt  my 
interest  rise  like  mercury  in  the  sun;  all  the  more  so  for  that 
unsigned  note  in  my  breast  pocket.  If  there  was  a  job  for  me, 
I  would  see  it  through. 

I  went  straight  up  to  her  and  raised  my  hat. 

"Miss  Corbyn?"  I  said.  "I'm  Kenyon  Rolfe." 

She  turned  to  me  with  a  smile,  and  quick  keen  inspection 
that  seemed  to  travel  right  through  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  being 
judged,  like  a  horse.  Then  she  held  out  her  hand  frankly. 

"How  did  you  pick  me  out?"  she  said  a  trifle  abruptly. 
"We've  never  met." 

"That's  easy.  Waited  till  the  passengers  had  thinned  out 
and  looked  for  a  girl  who  was  obviously  expecting  somebody 
she  wasn't  quite  sure  of,  and  wondering  why  he  hadn't  turned 
up.  Clothes  with  the  New  York  cut— there's  nothing  like  it 
anywhere  else.  And  your  luggage  is  marked  'E.  C  " 


ELAINE    CORBYN  19 

Her  eyes  twinkled. 

"That's  rather  cute,"  she  said  mockingly,  "though  its  not 
quite  the  right  answer — there  was  room  for  a  compliment 
here." 

I  laughed. 

"Sorry.  I'd  better  tell  you  at  once  I've  no  parlour  tricks." 

"We  shall  get  on  none  the  worse — I  haven't  many  myself. 
How  are  you  going  to  get  me  to  Stanways  Hall  ?  " 

"It's  a  short  hour's  drive,  and  my  car's  ready." 

She  nodded,  and  looked  round  her  impatiently,  with  just 
the  shadow  of  a  frown. 

"Come  on,  Jenny,"  she  called  to  a  girl  who  was  moving 
towards  us,  carrying  a  square,  black  morocco  leather  case, 
heavily  strapped.     "Hurry,  please!" 

I  remember  the  attendant  whom  my  father  had  mentioned; 
lady's  maid  or  companion — I  wondered  which.  .  .  .  She  was 
small  and  slight,  very  plainly  and  dowdily  dressed  in  grey, 
with  a  long,  tweed  coat.  There  was  a  timid,  pathetic  air  about 
the  girl,  as  if  she  found  life  none  too  smooth.  I  could  see 
little  of  her  face  under  the  deep  felt  hat. 

"This  is  Miss  Craddock,"  said  Elaine  Corbyn  briefly. 
"Jenny,  meet  the  Honourable  Kenyon  Rolfe." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  me  shyly  as  I  saluted  her,  and  I 
believe  in  that  moment  I  forgot  there  was  anybody  else  in 
Euston  Station,  or  for  that  matter  in  London  or  in  the  entire 
two  hemispheres.  There  was  a  charm  in  those  fairy  blue  eyes 
and  that  exquisite,  wistful  little  face  that  I  can't  put  into 
words  at  all. 

Yet  she  had  a  slightly  puzzled  expression,  as  if  I  were  not  at 
all  what  she  expected  and  she  had  been  looking  for  something 
very  different.  And  just  a  glint  of  friendly  laughter  behind 
those  eyes  of  hers.  She  looked  so  absurdly  young,  too.  If 
this  were  the  age  of  hair,  I  should  have  said  she  had  only  just 
put  hers  up.  But  it  was  shingled,  of  course;  rather  plainly,  it 


20  BLOODMONEY 

owed  nothing  to  art  ...  a  dainty  gleaming  chestnut  gold, 
and  eyebrows  just  a  shade  darker.  She  was  as  straight  as  a 
willow  wand,  and  as  slight  and  supple. 

They  say  that  into  every  one's  life  a  lightning-stroke  comes 
just  once;  it  had  never  come  into  mine  till  then.  That  appeal 
and  charm — but  it  is  no  use  trying  to  describe  her.  Think  of 
her  as  you  thought  of  the  first  woman  who  quickened  the 
pulses  within  you  that  all  the  rest  of  them  had  no  art  to  stir. 
Though  she  was  not  looking  her  best,  she  was  rather  white 
and  tired.  There  is  something  about  a  tired  woman  that 
touches  a  soft  spot  in  me,  and  I  suppose  paid  attendants  are 
not  allowed  to  be  weary. 

"Let  me  take  that,"  I  said,  relieving  her  of  the  black 
valise. 

"Oh  no,  please!"  said  Miss  Craddock.  "I  can  manage  it." 
But  I  had  it  away  from  her,  and  as  we  moved  off  with  the 
porter's  baggage  truck  following  behind  I  noticed  that 
Elaine  Corbyn  at  once  closed  in  on  the  other  side  of  me  and 
stayed  there  till  we  reached  the  car  park.  It  didn't  occur  to 
me  why,  at  the  moment.  But  I  soon  decided  that  this  girl 
was  particularly  wide  awake. 

"You  haven't  a  chauffeur?"  said  Miss  Corbyn,  running 
her  eyes  over  the  Chrysler  while  I  directed  the  porter  to 
strap  the  big  trunks  on  to  the  carrier. 

"We're  a  bit  short  of  chauffeurs  at  Stanways  just  now — 
I'm  driving  you  down  myself,"  said  I,  putting  the  valise 
inside. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  Miss  Corbyn.  "It's  forty  miles  up 
country,  isn't  it?  I'm  to  be  driven  by  Mr.  Kenyon  Rolfe? 
Before  we  get  away,  I'm  intending  to  be  satisfied  about  that. 
Anybody  here  who  knows  you?  Don't  let  it  get  your  goat." 

It  was  just  what  I  should  have  expected  of  this  girl.  I 
fished  out  of  my  pocket  the  letter  my  father  had  given  me, 
and  handed  it  to  her. 


ELAINECORBYN  21 

"That's  my  passport." 

She  nodded,  and  put  the  letter  into  her  handbag  instead  of 
passing  it  back.  She  didn't  seem  particularly  pleased  with 
me;  something  or  other — before  this  happened — had  ap- 
parently roughed  her  up,  though  I  had  no  idea  what  it  was. 
But  she  was  uncommonly  good-looking,  when  displeased. 
It  suited  her. 

"  That's  all  right,"  she  said,  "I  suppose  you've  read  that 
letter?" 

"Yes.  Addressed  to  the  family.  And  by  the  way,  if  there's 
anything  you'd  like  to  tell  me  about  it,  this  might  be  a  good 
time.  I  mean — if  there's  anything  you'd  wish  me  to  do. 
Just  as  you  please,  of  course  ...  I  don't  want  to  butt  in." 

"Nothing,  thank  you.  Until  we  know  each  other  a  little 
better,"  she  said  briefly.  She  made  a  sort  of  imperious  sign  to 
Jenny,  and  both  girls  got  into  the  car. 

My  temper  is  none  too  good,  and  after  a  snub  like  that  I 
was  feeling  pretty  raw  myself,  though  no  doubt  I  had  asked 
for  it.  I'd  only  meant  to  be  helpful,  and  if  I  had  been  a 
chauffeur  she  couldn't  have  treated  me  more  off"-handedly. 
When  I  had  paid  off  the  porter,  my  car- watcher  came 
forward,  and  stuck  his  clenched  fist  under  my  nose  as  if  he 
wished  me  to  admire  it.  The  knuckles  were  barked  and  raw. 

"See  that,  sir,"  he  said  grimly. 

"I  done  that  on  a  dirty  dog  that  I  caught  jammin'  a  needle 
into  your  back  tyre,  sir." 

"What  the  devil  for!" 

"Spite,  o'  course;  just  because  I  got  the  job  instead  of  'im. 
I  put  him  down  with  one  on  the  mouth  and  he  shot  up  agen 
and  sloped  off.  Wouldn't  stand  to  it.  Look  'ere,  sir!" 


V 

IN  FULL  CRY 

H  E  pointed  to  a  mark  on  the  near  back  tyre  and  touched  it 
with  a  wet  finger.  A  tiny  bubble  rose  up,  showing  a  slow 
puncture  that  would  have  left  the  tyre  flat  in  half  an  hour's 
travel.  More  annoyed  than  ever  I  took  my  coat  off",  jacked  up 
the  car,  and  changed  the  wheel  with  as  little  delay  as  possible. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Miss  Corby n,  putting  her  head 
out. 

"Nothing,"  I  said  shortly.  And  at  the  time  I  really  thought 
it  was  nothing  .  .  .  just  the  malice  of  some  loafer  or  street 
boy;  one  has  had  cars  wantonly  damaged  before  . . .  When  the 
change  was  made  I  gave  the  watcher  five  shillings  for  his 
barked  knuckles  and  told  him  I  wished  he  had  used  a  spiked 
club. 

I  slipped  into  the  driving-seat  and  found  the  little  Craddock 
girl  sitting  beside  me,  looking  rather  timid  and  forlorn.  With 
the  piles  of  bags  and  wraps  inside  there  was  now  only  com- 
fortable room  for  one  in  the  back  seats,  and  Elaine  Corbyn 
had  taken  that  place.  When  I  looked  round  to  see  where  she 
was,  she  remarked  briefly  that  she  disliked  sitting  in  the  front 
of  a  car  and  that  Miss  Craddock  would  take  the  forward  seat. 
Very  much  as  if  she  were  telling  pff^  the  lady's  maid  to  sit 
with  the  chauffeur. 

"Delighted,"  said  I,  as  I  let  in  the  clutch. 

This  business  was  going  wrong,  from  the  very  beginning. 
I  had  been  told  to  make  a  good  impression  on  Elaine  Corbyn, 
and  I  had  somehow  mismanaged  it  so  badly  that  I  was 
shunted  alongside  the  attendant  while  Elaine  sat  in  state 
behind  me  and  gave  orders  as  if  the  whole  outfit  belonged  to 
her.  And  I  was  perverse  enough  to  be  pleased  about  it. 
Though  I  had  only  known  her  ten  minutes,  there  was  no- 


INFULLCRY  23 

body  in  London  I  would  so  soon  have  sat  beside  as  Jenny 
Craddock.  It  seemed  to  me  that  she  shivered  a  little  ;  the 
night  was  chilly  and  there  was  a  rug  in  front.  I  spread  it  over 
her  knees  with  one  hand  while  we  swung  out  of  the  station 
approach. 

"Are  you  a  good  driver,  Mr.  Rolfe?"  asked  Miss  Corbyn 
from  the  back. 

"xMiddling,"  said  I. 

"Can  you  go  fast,  if  you  have  to?" 

"Fast!  That's  the  one  thing  I'm  good  at;  I  begin  where 
Segrave  leaves  off." 

With  a  certain  irritation  I  spirited  the  car  up  Camden 
Road,  past  a  traffic  policeman  and  cut  out  two  omnibuses 
and  a  lorry,  leaving  a  good  deal  of  language  behind  me,  and 
whizzed  past  Swiss  Cottage.  Miss  Corbyn  said  nothing,  but 
I  glanced  at  Jenny  and  noticed  that  her  eyes  were  closed, 
maybe  because  she  was  tired;  it  occurred  to  me  that  my  crazy 
driving  was  scaring  her  and  I  slowed  to  a  more  reasonable 
pace,  not  much  caring  whether  it  pleased  my  other  passenger 
or  not.  It  looked  as  if  Elaine  liked  speed.  Altogether,  I  was 
not  carrying  out  my  father's  instructions  at  all ;  in  a  sense  I 
wasn't  playing  the  game.  Still,  all  I  had  contracted  for  was  to 
bring  these  two  girls  home,  and  I  was  doing  that. 

We  sailed  over  Child's  Hill  and  struck  the  great  arterial 
road  to  Welwyn  twenty  minutes  later,  leaving  London 
behind  us.  The  last  of  the  raw,  new  suburbs  faded  out,  the 
wooded  country  beyond  was  washed  with  a  faint  fairy 
shimmer  of  moonlight,  the  wide  highway  cutting  through  it 
all  as  straight  as  a  race  track.  So  far,  Miss  Craddock  had 
sat  beside  me  perfectly  silent,  a  dainty,  fragrant  little 
presence.  I  glanced  at  her  face,  and  felt  happy  and  friendly. 

"Your  first  visit  to  England?"  I  said.  She  nodded. 

"I've  never  been  here  in  my  life,  and  never  dreamed  I'd 
have  the  chance.  It's  beautiful,  anyway — what  I  saw  of  it  from 


24  BLOODMONEY 

the  train.  Quiet  and  peaceful.  I  suppose  nothing  ever  happens 
here?" 

"I  was  just  wondering,"  said  I. 

"Stan ways  is  a  famous  house,  isn't  it?  Like  you  read  about 
in  English  novels." 

"I  wonder  if  it  will  be  anything  like  what  you  expect. 
It's  not  exactly  Windsor,  nor  even  Chatsworth." 

She  smiled;  a  childish,  attractive  little  smile.  Her  shyness 
seemed  to  be  falling  away  from  her. 

"You're  not  very  much  like  what  I  expected  either.  But 

it'll  have  to  be  quite  a  large  house,  to  fit  you,  Mr. "  she 

paused.  "I  don't  quite  know  what  I  ought  to  call  you?  The 
Honourable  Kenyon  Rolfe?" 

"Oh,  that's  never  used  here — except  on  tradesmen's 
letters  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Plain  Mr.  Rolfe;  I'm  Ken  to 
my  friends.  When  I  was  ranching  in  Montana  the  boys  saw 
fit  to  call  me  'British,'  and  it  carries  a  long  way  over  a  plain 
if  it's  yelled  out  in  the  right  key." 

"So  you've  ranched  in  Montana,  Mr.  Rolfe?"  said  Elaine 
Corby n's  voice  behind  us.  "By  the  way,  is  there  somebody 
trying  to  get  past?" 

I  glanced  back,  and  slowed  a  little.  There  was  a  car 
somewhere  behind  us,  and  if  there's  anything  I  hate  it  is  the 
glare  of  headlights  at  the  back  of  me.  I  was  enjoying  the 
drive  and  she  was  quite  welcome  to  go  by  if  she  was  in  such 
a  hurry.  But  instead  of  doing  so  the  car  astern  hung  on 
behind  in  the  annoying  way  some  cars  have,  though  there 
was  lots  of  room  and  no  other  traffic  in  sight.  So  to  get  rid  of 
the  glare  through  the  rear  windows  on  my  wind-screen  I 
speeded  up  to  an  easy  fifty  which  is  fast  enough  to  leave 
anything  behind  at  night.  We  curved  into  the  Great  North 
Road  and  shot  through  Stevenage  and  Baldock. 

But  when  we  passed  over  the  high  downs,  those  powerful 
headlights  at  the  back  stole  up  and  stuck  to  us  still.  That 


INFULLCRY  25 

roused  me,  and  I  asked  the  Chrysler  for  her  best;  the  speedo- 
meter needle  touched  sixty-three!  The  other  car  just  held  us. 
She  didn't  try  to  pass.  She  eased  when  I  eased,  and  speeded 
when  I  speeded,  keeping  always  about  two  hundred  yards 
astern;  the  situation  was  now  clear  enough. 

We  were  being  dogged. 

I  made  quite  sure.  I  had  the  advantage  here,  for  I  know 
every  by-way  in  that  district  as  well  as  I  know  the  park  at 
home.  At  the  foot  of  the  long  hill  I  slowed  enough  to  turn 
left  and  away  into  the  Cranwell  road,  a  long  narrow  gravelly 
highway  that  runs  straight  northward  through  a  lonely 
country  with  a  maze  of  lanes  to  either  side.  It  was  not  a 
route  that  anyone  would  be  likely  to  take;  it  was  a  no-man's- 
land  to  the  ordinary  motorist.  But  the  car  behind  had  watched 
the  course  of  my  headlights  when  I  turned,  for  here  she  was 
again,  as  faithful  as  a  shadow. 

Instantly  all  the  earlier  events  of  the  evening,  forgotten 
for  the  while,  came  back  to  me.  The  spy  at  Stanways,  the 
furtive  attempt  at  blackmail;  the  anonymous  warning  at 
Euston.  They  were  taking  concrete  shape.  This  big,  black- 
looking,  powerful  open  car  behind  me — it  was  only  a  vague 
impression  I  could  get  in  a  backward  glance  through  the 
glare  of  the  oncoming  lights — meant  business  of  some  sort 
and  doubtless  ugly  business  at  that. 

What  was  his  game;  what  did  he  think  he  could  do?  If  he 
had  the  lead  of  us  there  were  plenty  of  things  he  could  do. 
Watch  us  home,  or  get  ahead  of  us  and  hold  us  up.  Or 

"Why  are  we  going  so  fast?"  murmured  Jenny  Craddock 
uneasily.  Elaine  Corbyn  leaned  forward  over  the  seat. 

"Mr.  Rolfe,"  she  said  quietly,  "that  car  behind  is  trailing 
us." 

"You've  noticed  it?"  said  I.  It  had  been  pretty  obvious 
for  the  last  ten  miles. 

"I've  noticed  it  ever  since  we  left  Euston." 


a6  BLOOD    MONEY 

"The  dickens  you  did!  Have  you  any  idea  who  it  is?" 

"Elaine!"  gasped  Jenny,  "do  you  think  it's " 

"Shut  up,  Jenny,"  said  Elaine  briefly.  No  ...  I  don't  know 
who  it  is.  But  never  mind  talking  now — please  keep  going!" 

"I  will!"  said  I.  "Taking  it  all  round  I've  a  pretty  valuable 
freight  aboard.  Do  you  think  it's  somebody  with  an  eye  to 
that  black  jewel-case?" 

"Jewel-case!  You  mean  the  valise?  Why,  there  are  a  few 
trinkets  of  mine  in  that " 

"A  few  trinkets!  I  should  say  by  its  weight  it  held  half  the 
stock  in  Tiffany's  show  window." 

"Mr.  Rolfe,"  said  Elaine,  "  whatever  they  are  after  it  isn't 
likely  to  be  the  jewel-case,  that's  all  I  can  tell  you.  Can  you 
get  quit  of  them?" 

I  nodded.  It  was  not  a  question  of  'can' — I  had  got  to  get 
quit  of  them. 

As  a  rule  it  pays  better  to  stand  than  run.  But  with  two 
women  in  the  car  there  seemed  nothing  for  it  but  to  keep  on. 
It  might  be  that  I  had  played  into  the  pursuers'  hands  by 
turning  off  the  main  route,  and  that  they  had  got  me  where 
they  wanted  me.  I  thought  /  had  got  them  where  I  wanted 
them. 

There  was  something  wildly  exhilarating  in  that  rush 
through  the  night.  Any  moment  we  might  find  ourselves 
ditched  or  turning  head  over  heels;  but  the  same  applied  to 
the  other  fellow,  and  he  didn't  seem  to  mind.  If  we  should 
happen  to  stop  and  make  closer  acquaintance,  the  heavy, 
steel  lever  of  the  car-jack  was  handy  in  its  locker,  and  my 
thoughts  turned  to  it  instinctively.  But  I  was  still  keeping  a 
little  of  the  Chrysler's  speed  in  reserve.  She  was  holding  the 
rough  road  splendidly;  the  car  behind  had  opened  its  exhaust 
cut-out,  and  was  roaring  like  a  devouring  beast. 

Apart  from  the  commonplace  risks  of  fast  driving  I  could 
feel  in  my  bones  that  there  was  danger,  real  cold-drawn 


INFULLCRY  27 

danger  at  the  back  of  this  mysterious  chase,  and  I  couldn't 
help  admiring  the  self-possessed  way  in  which  Elaine 
Corbyn  took  it,  though  there  was  a  tense  note  in  her  voice 
when  she  spoke,  as  though  she  were  holding  herself  in. 
Poor  little  Jenny  was  badly  shaken;  she  said  nothing,  but  I 
could  feel  her  trembling  at  my  side.  I  felt  a  strong  impulse  to 
put  an  arm  round  her  and  tell  her  not  to  worry.  But  I 
repressed  it — besides  I  wanted  both  hands  for  the  wheel. 

"Peaceful  England!"  I  said  laughing.  "Nothing  ever 
happens  here."  And  not  till  then  did  I  remember  the  un- 
known loafer  at  Euston  whose  needle  had  put  one  tyre  out  of 
action  and  I  blessed  my  car-watcher  and  his  barked  knuckles; 
I  had  changed  the  wheel  in  time!  If  the  hunters  behind  me 
wanted  to  make  sure  of  a  killing,  they  couldn't  have  chosen 
a  cuter  way!  The  advice  of  the  immortal  huntsman  James 
Pigg  flashed  into  my  mind — "If  ye  want  to  show  a  kill,  pop 
a  few  shot-corns  into  fox's  hind  legs,  an'  hounds  '11  soon 
catch  him.  .  .  ." 

Was  it  fancy,  or  did  the  steering-wheel  pull  over  and  drag 
to  the  left,  as  if  the  other  tyre  was  giving  out  on  me?  It 
seemed  to  me  I  could  feel  it  plainly. 

"They're  gaining  on  us!"  said  Elaine. 

I  heard  a  cUck,  as  she  pulled  down  the  blind  over  the  car's 
rear  window.  Simultaneously  I  heard  something  else  ...  a 
sharp,  splitting  crack  away  behind  us,  a  pitiful  little  gasp 
from  the  girl  at  my  side,  and  the  car  lurched  and  swerved, 
swinging  me  violently  against  her. 


VI 

THE  CHECK 

I  H  A  V  E  not  the  foggiest  notion  even  now  why  the  car  did 
not  turn  a  double  somersault,  but  I  had  still  one  hand  on  the 
wheel  and  gave  a  sort  of  blind  wrench  that  straightened  her 
on  to  the  road  again,  more  by  luck  than  judgement,  as  I 
heaved  myself  clear  of  Jenny  and  trod  on  the  gas. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  I  shouted. 

"No  !"  she  said  huskily,  and  that  was  a  bigger  relief  to  me 
than  finding  the  car  right  side  up  and  still  speeding.  I  had 
had  the  idea — from  the  cry  she  gave  after  that  pistol-like 
crack  away  behind,  that  something  deadly  had  happened  to 
her.  The  idea  seemed  perfectly  mad — but  as  far  as  I  could 
see  the  night  was  packed  full  of  madness;  I  was  long  past 
being  surprised  at  anything. 

"You're  well  ahead!  They  were  nearly  ditched  too — keep 
going!"  said  an  encouraging  voice  behind  me. 

So  Elaine  Corbyn  was  not  damaged  either;  that  was  all  to 
the  good,  though  somehow  I  hadn't  given  it  a  thought  when 
I  sung  out  to  Jenny.  We  had  gained  a  little  on  the  pursuers, 
but  I  knew  it  could  only  end  one  way  if  this  went  on.  They 
had  the  speed  of  us,  and  though  my  tyre  was  holding  out 
there  was  no  getting  quit  of  them  by  running.  Having  this 
freight  on  board  the  odds  were  too  long  against  me  if  I  came 
to  a  halt  and  a  scrap  with  the  opponents  whoever  they  were. 

There  was  only  one  card  left  up  my  sleeve  and  I  played  it. 
My  headlights  gave  them  a  clear  mark  to  follow.  We  were 
flying  down  a  long  slope  with  a  useful  lead  of  the  other 
car,  and  next  came  a  short  steep  rise.  At  the  end  of  the 
straight  stretch  beyond,  was  a  right-angled  bend  with  a 
flimsy  wooden  rail  and  a  sheer  drop  into  a  chalk-pit.  We 
should  both  have  to  slow  when  we  reached  that.  .  .  . 


THECHECK  29 

I  didn't  mean  to  reach  it.  One  reason  why  I  had  turned 
into  this  Cranwell  back-country  was  that  I  knew  every  acre 
of  it,  and  the  notion  had  naturally  flashed  up  from  the  first 
moment  I  was  sure  we  were  being  chased;  I  had  one  ad- 
vantage over  a  hunted  fox.  He  can't  shut  off  his  scent  even 
when  he  runs  to  earth. 

When  we  topped  the  rise  of  the  hill  and  dashed  along  the 
straight,  I  could  tell  by  my  driving-mirror  that  the  pursuer 
had  not  yet  come  up  over  the  crest;  the  glare  of  his  head- 
lights was  not  visible  in  the  reflector  beside  me.  And  I  shut 
my  lights  off. 

It  was  the  biggest  chance  I  ever  took,  that  plunge  from 
light  into  gloom,  going  at  such  a  pace.  If  my  eyes  failed  to 
focus  themselves  in  time  and  enable  me  to  steer,  we  should 
crash  to  a  certainty.  If  you  doubt  it,  shut  off  your  own  head- 
lights, speeding  at  night.  But  it  was  that  or  nothing.  There 
was  just  sufficient  glimmer  of  moonlight  to  let  me  keep  the 
road.  Seventy  yards  ahead  on  the  left  was  a  tall  ash  tree  and 
just  beyond  it,  I  knew,  was  the  opening  of  a  cart-track  that 
turned  to  the  left  between  blind  hedges. 

"Sit  tight!"  I  shouted,  shutting  off  the  gas  and  braking 
hard.  There  was  just  space  enough  to  reduce  the  speed  from 
fifty  to  about  fifteen  before  we  reached  the  tree;  I  wrenched 
the  wheel  over  and  we  dived  sharp  left  into  that  blind  cart- 
track  like  a  rabbit  diving  into  a  furze  bush,  and  stopped 
dead. 

The  whole  move  had  not  taken  twenty  seconds;  if  the 
pursuer  had  his  lights  on  us  before  we  got  off  the  road  I 
should  have  failed — but  even  then  he  would  be  likely  to  pass 
by,  and  there  was  no  room  for  him  to  turn  and  swing. 

I  shoved  my  head  out  through  the  window.  Here  he  came, 
racing  along  at  full  clip.  Never  slackening  in  the  least, 
he  roared  by  us,  seeing  nothing  but  the  empty  road  in  front  of 
him,  and  with  a  wicked  thrill  of  delight  that  shot  right  down 


30  BLOODMONEY 

to  the  soles  of  my  feet  I  sprang  out  of  the  car  and  ran  back  on 
to  the  road  to  watch. 

The  red  tail-Hght  of  the  other  car  was  receding  swiftly, 
the  two  great  beams  from  his  headlamps  stretched  ahead  like 
the  antennae  of  an  insect  seeking  its  prey.  There  was  barely 
a  hundred  yards  before  him  to  the  bend  of  the  road  and  in  a 
moment  or  two  I  heard  what  I  was  waiting  for — the  squeal 
of  brakes  jammed  on  violently,  drowned  by  a  sharp- 
shattering  crack,  followed  by  a  fraction  of  a  second's  pause. 

Then  a  crash  that  woke  the  night  and  sent  its  echoes 
throbbing  along  the  moonlit  road,  dying  away  into  a  silence 
that  could  be  felt. 

I  stood  still  for  a  while  listening.  It  was  as  satisfactory  a 
moment  as  I  ever  had.  I  went  back  to  the  Chrysler,  started 
her,  and  began  to  reverse  her  on  to  the  road.  Jenny 
Craddock  preserved  a  sort  of  paralysed  silence.  Miss  Corbyn 
was  excitedly  saying  something  that  sounded  like  a  round 
of  applause,  much  to  my  surprise;  but  I  wasn't  paying  any 
attention  to  her  till  the  car  swung  clear. 

"That's  that,"  I  said  with  relief,  "you're  sure  neither  of 
you  two  are  hurt?" 

"That  car  crashed  didn't  it?"  exclaimed  Elaine,  "where 
is  it?" 

"Well,  for  a  guess  its  in  the  chalk-pit  at  the  bend,"  said 
I.  "Until  somebody  designs  one  with  wings,  there  are  very 
few  cars  that  will  fly  a  chalk-pit.  I  shouldn't  worry  about  it 
if  I  were  you;  we're  not  likely  to  have  any  further  trouble 
that  way." 

I  didn't  feel  that  the  occupants  of  the  other  car,  whoever 
they  might  be,  were  any  loss  to  civilisation,  I  have  a  pre- 
judice against  shooting  at  any  time;  I'm  not  exactly  squeam- 
ish, but  a  fellow  who  shoots  at  a  woman,  even  allowing  that 
he  may  have  excellent  reasons  for  it,  is  welcome  to  any  trouble 
I  can  put  in  his  way.     They  certainly  had  not  been  after  me. 


THECHECK  3I 

though  if  they  were  I  should  have  been  just  as  much 
annoyed. 

"Might  have  been  us,  you  know — with  a  Httle  luck,"  I 
said,  "would  you  like  me  to " 

There  was  an  interruption;  a  faint  gasp  from  Jenny,  who 
was  staring  ahead.  And  I  stared  too.  Down  at  the  bend  a 
bright  glow  was  lighting  up  the  trees,  growing  brighter 
swiftly,  till  in  a  few  seconds  a  column  of  yellow  fire  shot  up 
high  above  the  hollow,  illuminating  the  sky  with  a  devilish 
glare. 

"Gosh!"  I  said,  letting  in  the  clutch,  "her  tank's  flashed!" 

"How  awful!"  gulped  Jenny,  trembling.  "Can't  you  help — 
can't  you  do  something!" 

I  was  already  shooting  the  Chrysler  along  towards  the  pit. 
Even  the  fire  didn't  fill  me  with  any  humanitarian  sentiments; 
I've  seen  a  house  full  of  people  alight,  but  this  was  different. 
Still,  one  certainly  had  to  do  something.  I  pulled  up  at  the 
bend  with  a  jerk  and  jumped  out. 

"Stay  where  you  are!"  I  said,  for  it  was  not  likely  to  be  a 
pretty  sight  that  was  waiting  for  us  in  the  pit. 

Rescue  work  is  all  very  well,  but  I  didn't  know  what  other 
work  might  be  to  hand,  and  I  grabbed  a  heavy,  two-foot 
spanner  from  the  tool-box  before  I  ran  to  the  gap  where 
the  flimsy  rail  had  been  torn  away,  and  looked  down. 

On  the  bare  floor  of  the  pit  lay  the  car,  the  focus-point  of 
a  fountain  of  flame  that  was  flaring  upwards  like  a  geyser. 
A  glance  was  enough  to  show  that  no  chance  remained  of 
getting  any  living  thing  out  of  that  mass  of  wreckage. 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  to  get,  dead  or  alive.  The  car, 
a  big  open  one  of  semi-racing  type,  lay  flat  on  its  side;  its 
long  bonnet  was  crushed,  and  through  the  sheet  of  trans- 
parent yellow  flame  that  was  now  sweeping  it  from  end  to 
end  I  could  see  there  was  nothing  inside  the  body.  But — 
was  that  dark  shadow  there  something  pinned  underneath  it? 


32  BLOODMONEY 

Without  a  second's  pause  I  dashed  round  the  edge  where  the 
ground  sloped  and  got  down  into  the  pit. 

The  heat  was  so  fierce  that  one  could  not  get  very  near. 
It  was  like  facing  a  blast-furnace.  I  did  my  best  at  the  cost 
of  scorched  hands  and  eyeballs,  but  I  was  beaten  back,  and 
what  I  had  thought  I  saw  from  above  was  no  longer  visible. 
Nor  did  it  seem  possible  that  there  was  anybody  beneath  that 
flat-lying  wreck;  if  there  was,  he  was  beyond  hope. 

I  stepped  back  and  looked  about  me  quickly;  the  whole 
place  was  lit  up  like  noon.  I  never  saw  anything  more 
diabolical  than  that  pit  with  its  fountain  of  flame  and  its 
dancing  black  shadows.  The  white  chalk  floor  was  bare  all 
around. 

For  all  the  sign  there  was  of  anything  human,  the  car 
might  have  been  driven  by  a  ghost. 

Then  I  caught  sight  of  a  pile  of  stones  overshadowed  by 
a  small  bush,  some  twenty  feet  away  to  the  left.  Under  the 
bush,  when  I  reached  it,  was  a  huddled  figure,  lying  face 
downwards. 

I  turned  him  over,  and  found  I  had  to  do  with  a  dead  man. 


VII 
A  PACT  OF  SILENCE 

The  question  was  what  to  do  next,  and  I  solved  that  quickly. 
For  the  man  himself  there  was  nothing  to  be  done. 

The  first  thing  one  naturally  does  in  such  circumstances 
is  to  look  into  a  man's  face.  But  if  I  had  ever  seen  him  before 
I  should  not  have  known  it — for  he  had  no  face.  One  does 
not  want  to  go  into  details.  There  was  a  chunk  of  limestone 
on  that  rock  heap  into  which  he  had  evidently  crashed  front 
first.  It  must  have  been  one  of  the  quickest  deaths  on  record; 
the  effect  on  what  had  once  been  his  features  was  beyond 
description. 

For  a  guess,  I  should  say  he  had  been  shot  clear  of  the  car 
when  it  checked  at  the  crash  through  the  fence  above,  and 
the  impetus  had  thrown  him  many  yards  beyond,  into  the 
pit.  One  queer  thing  I  noticed  was  that  his  soft  felt  hat  was 
still  on  the  back  of  his  head,  jammed  hard  on  as  a  man  would 
jam  it  when  driving  at  high  speed,  and  that  it  was  hardly 
crumpled.  But  forward  of  the  hat — nothing.  I  noticed  he 
was  rather  small  of  build,  and  wore  good  quality  serge 
clothes,  and  neat  brown  boots.  But  altogether  I  did  not 
spend  twenty  seconds  over  him. 

The  next  thing  was  a  rapid  search  all  round  the  place  for 
his  companions.  He  must  have  had  somebody  with  him, 
surely.  Nobody  would  tackle  such  an  enterprise  single- 
handed,  nor  would  any  man  be  able  to  drive  at  that  pace 
over  such  roads  and  shoot  as  well — I  was  sure  I  had  heard 
at  least  one  shot.  But  nothing  could  I  find;  save  for  the 
blazing  wreck  and  the  corpse,  the  place  seemed  as  empty  as 
the  tomb. 

The  drop  into  the  pit  was  a  sheer  twelve  feet,  at  the  pace 
the  car  went  it  seemed  incredible  that  anybody  who  was  in 


34  BLOODMONEY 

her  could  have  got  away  with  it.  Yet  people  do  sometimes 
escape  more  or  less  unhurt  from  the  most  amazing  crashes. 
I  searched  hurriedly  to  the  outer  limit  of  the  pit  where  the 
ground  sloped  away,  covered  with  clumps  of  bushes  and 
gorse  looming  darkly  in  the  glare  of  the  fire.  It  didn't  seem 
likely  anybody  could  have  been  flung  so  far.  Just  short  of  the 
cover  I  caught  sight  of  what  looked  like  fresh  footmarks 
ploughing  through  the  chalky  soil.  I  followed  to  where  they 
disappeared  in  the  grass  .  .  .  the  light  was  too  bad  here  to  let 
one  see  much. 

I  was  just  pushing  ahead  when  I  took  a  glance  behind  me 
and  saw  someone  moving  about  the  pit  not  far  from  the 
burning  car.  I  turned  and  ran  back — it  was  Elaine,  of  all 
people  .  .  .  she  had  climbed  down  by  the  slope  at  the  side. 

"Go  back,  for  mercy's  sake!"  I  cried  as  I  ran,  "keep  away 
from  that." 

But  she  was  already  standing  by  the  body  when  I  arrived, 
looking  down  at  it;  her  face  was  pale  in  the  glare,  and 
something  in  her  expression  made  me  blurt  out. 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

She  shook  her  head — it  was  a  fool  question  I  had  asked, 
his  own  brother  wouldn't  have  known  him. 

"Is  there  no  one  else?"  she  asked. 

"I  believe  so — tracks  down  yonder  .  .  .  you  go  back  while 
I  see  to  it." 

Elaine  laid  a  hand  on  my  arm. 

"Mr.  Rolfe,  I  want  you  to  take  me  out  of  this,  please — 
at  once!  Will  you?  Let  us  get  away  from  here — just  as  quick 
as  we  can.  Let  everything  else  go." 

"Right!  Get  to  the  car,  and  for  Mike's  sake  keep  the  other 
girl  from  leaving  it- -I  can  hear  her  crying  out  for  you  .  .  . 
I'll  be  with  you  in  a  second." 

She  turned  and  hurried  up  the  slope  again  on  to  the  road. 
I  hesitated.  What  she  asked  of  me  was  the  common-sense 


APACTOFSILENCE  35 

thing  to  do  no  doubt,  with  two  girls  on  my  hands.  I  hated  to 
turn  my  back  on  it;  I  wanted  badly  to  know  what  had  become 
of  that  other  man.  Either  he  had  got  away,  or  he  was  hiding 
up — ^\vas  he  the  man  with  the  gun?  Or  maybe  he  had  met  the 
same  fate  as  his  mate  and  I'd  failed  to  find  him  yet  ...  he 
couldn't  be  lying  injured  or  he  would  surely  have  sung  out 
for  help  rather  than  be  left  to  it.  What  had  become  of  him? 
It  was  the  silence  and  the  emptiness — save  for  the  dead 
thing  by  the  bush — that  shook  me. 

I  darted  along  to  the  gorse  where  the  tracks  were,  taking 
a  grip  of  the  spanner,  and  ploughed  to  and  fro  for  a  few 
moments  but  not  a  thing  could  I  see,  and  Elaine  was  calling  to 
me.  There  was  no  help  for  it.  Back  I  went. 

As  I  crossed  the  floor  of  the  pit  I  stopped  dead,  almost 
stumbling  upon  something  I  had  overlooked.  A  flat  tweed 
cap,  lying  crown  downwards  on  the  chalk,  not  a  dozen  feet 
from  the  car.  I  was  about  to  pick  it  up — but  instead  I  passed 
round  it  and  let  it  lie.  I  reached  the  road  and  slipped  into 
the  Chrysler's  driving-seat.  Both  girls  were  already  inside. 

"Away  quick,  please!"  said  Elaine  as  I  swung  the  car.  "Go 
back  by  the  way  you  came!" 

There  was  no  panic  in  her  voice,  she  spoke  as  quietly  as 
ever,  but  she  had  dropped  that  curtness  of  command,  as 
though  she  were  giving  orders  to  a  chauffeur,  nor  was  there 
any  appeal  in  her  tone  either,  she  just  spoke  as  one  good 
friend  might  to  another.  She  was  sitting  beside  me  now,  in 
Jenny's  place;  I  guessed  that  Jenny  had  left  the  car  and  had 
been  hustled  back  by  Elaine  who  had  relegated  her  to  the 
rear  seat. 

"Elaine!"  she  cried  breathlessly  from  the  place  among  the 
baggage  as  we  sped  along  the  sandy  road,  "are  you  sure — are 
you  sure — it's  all  right  .  .  .  ?" 

"Well,  I  think  he  got  clear  away,"  said  I;  it  came  home  to 
me  pretty  quick  that  Elaine  had  said  nothing  to  her  about 


36  BLOODMONEY 

the  dead  man  in  the  pit  and  I  was  right,  for  I  felt  an  approving 
nudge  of  Elaine's  elbow  against  my  arm.  I  felt  glad  enough 
for  the  poor  child  to  be  spared  any  knowledge  of  it  for  as 
long  as  might  be,  after  what  she  had  been  through;  she  was 
very  far  from  being  as  tough  stuff  as  her  chief. 

"And  don't  you  worry,"  I  added,  "you're  in  no  sort  of 
danger  now,  and  we'll  clear  up  this  trouble  for  you." 

I  was  feeling  a  good  deal  bewildered  myself,  and  there 
was  silence  till  I  had  laid  a  couple  of  rapid  miles  between  me 
and  the  flare  in  the  pit.  I  felt  too  that  Elaine  knew  a  lot  more 
about  this  business  than  I  did,  but  she  seemed  tongue-tied. 
But  now  that  the  tension  was  eased  she  turned  to  me. 

"The  way  you  handled  that  job  was  fine,  Mr.  Rolfe,"  she 
said  warmly,  "it  was  a  time  for  quick  thinking,  and  I  never 
saw  anything  quicker.  You're  a  man  one  can  rely  on." 

I  grew  hot  under  the  collar,  and  felt  rather  a  fool.  What  I 
had  done  was  only  the  obvious  thing  to  do,  and  we  had  had 
a  lot  of  luck  with  us.  In  a  sense  the  crashing  of  the  car  and  its 
crew  was  my  doing,  but  the  last  thing  I  had  expected  was 
to  have  bouquets  handed  me  by  Elaine.  It  was  pleasant 
enough,  but  it  was  telling  me  nothing. 

"The  question  is,  what  you're  going  to  do  next " 

"There's  one  sure  thing  we've  got  to  do,  now  we're  away," 
I  said,  stopping  the  car  under  a  hedge  and  jumping  out, 
"that  tyre's  gone  flat  on  us  at  last." 

I  had  no  second  spare  wheel,  but  a  powerful  foot-pump 
that  would  give  us  wind  enough  to  beat  a  slow  puncture  and 
get  us  home  with  the  least  delay  possible.  I  got  it  to  work 
and  was  pumping  busily  when  Elaine  slipped  out  of  the  car 
and  came  beside  me. 

''Where  are  you  going  to  make  for?"  she  asked. 

"Hertford  or  home  .  .  .  soon  as  you're  out  of  the  way  I'll 
report  and  get  things  moving.  The  quicker  that's  done  the 
better." 


APACTOFSILENCE  37 

"Will  you  do  something  for  me?" 

"Sure." 

"Take  me  to  Stanways,  Mr.  Rolfe — and  leave  it  at  that. 
Whoever  wishes  to  move  in  it,  let  them  move  I  I  don't  want  it 
reported.  I'd  like  you — for  the  present  anyway — to  keep  all 
this  to  yourself,  and  forget  it.  I  don't  want  anything  done 
at  all — please." 

I  took  my  foot  off  the  pump  and  stared  at  her  in  amaze- 
ment. I  couldn't  believe  she  was  serious. 

"Of  course  if  you  don't  agree  I  can't  insist,"  she  said 
quickly,  "but  you'll  be  helping  me  if  you  say  nothing." 

I  looked  back  at  the  distant  flare  against  the  sky — it  seemed 
such  a  long  way  off  now — and  thought  of  the  dead  man  in 
the  pit.  But  nothing,  so  far,  had  surprised  me  as  much  as  this. 
It  seemed  incredible  that  she  could  mean  it. 

Here  in  England,  anyway,  my  instinctive,  thickheaded 
British  bias  on  the  side  of  law  and  custom  surged  up  against 
the  idea.  And  yet  I'm  not  bigoted.  I  wasn't  in  the  least 
worried  as  to  what  had  happened  to  those  two  thugs  in  the 
car.  And  if  she  wanted  this  thing  kept  quiet,  she  must  have 
very  strong  reasons  for  it. 

It  flashed  into  my  mind  that  my  own  part  in  the  affair 
from  the  start  .  .  .  the  scene  with  my  father  .  .  .  the  spying 
by  Linke  .  .  .  Elaine's  status  as  a  guest  at  Stanways.  .  .  to  say 
nothing  of  this  amazing  drive — didn't  exactly  shout  for 
publicity.  And  once  the  police  start  sorting  things  out  you 
never  know  where  you  are.  Besides,  when  a  woman  asks 
you  not  to  give  anything  away,  what  else  is  there  to  be 
done? 

"If  you  say  so,"  said  I,  "but  doesn't  it  strike  you  this  is 
going  to  be  a  bit  dangerous?" 

"It's  the  least  dangerous  way — for  me.  And  I  promise 
you  that  if  it  comes  up  against  you  at  all,  I'll  see  you 
clear." 


38  BLOODMONEY 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  myself.  You  can  cut  that  out — don't 
worry  about  me,  I'd  lose  no  sleep  over  it.  Mum's  the  word 
then.  It's  your  show,  and  your  decision." 

I  heard  an  audible  sigh  of  relief  from  her. 

"That's  fine  of  you,"  she  said  gratefully,  "you'd  rather 
have  gone  straight  ahead  with  it,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"Well — I  don't  usually  let  people  shoot  at  me  without 
taking  steps  about  it.  But " 

"Shoot?"  she  exclaimed,  "what  do  you  mean  ? — they 
didn't  shoot " 

"Oh  come!"  I  said.  "D'you  think  I  don't  know  a  pistol 
shot  when  I  hear  one  .  .  .  just  before  I  turned  the 
car." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  should  think  what  you  heard  was  a  back-fire.  I'd  have 
noticed  it  if  they  had  shot  at  us — I  was  watching  through  the 
back  window,  just  before  pulling  the  blind  over  it." 

She  might  be  right.  She  must  have  thought  so  for  I  didn't 
see  why  she  should  try  to  fool  me  over  a  matter  like  that. 
She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said: 

"You  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  more  about  it  .  .  .  there  are 
plenty  of  questions  you'd  like  to  ask  me,  aren't  there?  It's 
going  to  be  safer,  for  all  of  us,  if  I  say  nothing  yet." 

"That's  just  as  you  please,"  said  I,  "but  if  you're  in  any 
sort  of  trouble  or  danger,  and  you  care  to  tell  me,  maybe  I 
could  help." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I'm  in  some  sort  of  trouble — or  danger. 
Will  you  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  even  now  I  don't 
know  finally  what  it  is,  or  what  may  come  of  it.  It's  some- 
thing I  can't  talk  about  to — anyone.  This  may  be  the  end 
of  it  all  ...  I  hope  so.  I  can  say  or  do  nothing,  till  I  know 
more  than  I  do  now.  Later  maybe,  I'll  tell  you;  if  you  care  to 
hear.  For  the  time,  do  you  mind  if  I  keep  it  to  myself  and  ask 
you  to  do  the  same?" 


APACTOFSILENCE  39 

"Certainly,"  said  I.  "The  door's  shut  and  the  key  lost, 
so  far  as  Tm  concerned." 

She  murmured  something  that  I  didn't  catch,  and  slipped 
back  into  the  car,  I  blew  the  tyre  hard,  jumped  in,  and  was 
buzzing  along  the  road  again,  when  Elaine  called  back  to  her 
companion. 

"Remember  what  I've  told  you,  Jenny.  If  you're  asked,  we 
ran  straight  through  to  Stan  ways,  only  stopping  to  change 
a  wheel." 

"It's  asking  me  to  tell  a  he,"  said  Jenny  huskily. 

"Yes  dear,"  said  Elaine.  "Most  of  us  have  to  lie  some- 
times. I  heard  you  say  once  that  you  wished  you  had  a  dollar 
for  every  lie  you've  told.  You'd  be  a  capitalist — you'd  make 
my  little  pile  look  like  thirty  cents.  You  might  switch  off  all 
lights,  Mr.  Rolfe,  so  that  nobody  who  happens  to  be  about 
will  see  this  car  turn  on  to  the  main  road  again  or  remember 
afterwards  what  time  she  struck  it." 

I  was  going  to  do  that  in  any  case;  I  was  already  driving 
with  the  little  side-lights  only,  but  I  switched  even  those  off 
and  crept  back  on  to  the  Great  North  Road  in  darkness, 
not  showing  my  lamps  till  I  was  well  away  on  the  route. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  under  her  breath,  "if  anyone  hunts 
around  to-morrow,  back  there,  they'll  see  your  tyre-marks 
where  you  took  the  cart-road  by  the  chalk-pit  and  reversed 
out  again.  There'll  be  no  trailing  us  any  farther  now  we've 
hit  the  asphalt.  I  should  say  it  will  puzzle  anybody  to 
identify  that  wreck  any  more  than  its  driver — by  the  way  it 
was  blazing  it  will  be  fused  into  scrap-iron." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "and  you  should  clean  every  trace  of  chalk 
off  your  shoes  Miss  Corbyn;  see  to  it  yourself  before  any- 
body else  handles  them  at  home.  Meanwhile  scrub  them 
well  on  the  mat  that's  under  your  feet  here,  so  they  don't 
carry  the  stuff  out.  The  car,  I'll  attend  to." 

She  nodded. 


40  BLOODMONEY 

"You've  a  head  on  your  shoulders,  Mr.  Ken  Rolfe,"  she 
said  as  we  shot  off  for  home  at  full  speed,  "you'll  do." 

Her  manner  had  altered  altogether  since  we  got  away  from 
the  trouble.  One  couldn't  help  liking  her.  But  somehow 
the  change  didn't  elate  me  as  it  ought  to  have  done.  I  was 
regretting  all  the  time  that  she  had  changed  places  with 
Jenny,  who  was  sitting  at  the  back  of  the  car  as  silent  as  a 
scared  mouse. 

My  thoughts  went  back  for  the  last  time  to  that  pit  with 
its  dancing  shadows,  the  unexplained  disappearance,  the 
knowledge  that  a  corpse  lay  there  with  the  smashed  head  that 
it  had  asked  for  .  .  .  maybe  there  were  two,  but  I  doubted  it. 
And  now  that  the  flare  was  far  out  of  sight  it  seemed  as  un- 
real as  a  dream:  I  could  scarcely  believe  it  ever  happened. 
To  me  by  far  the  most  amazing  aspect  was  the  coolness  with 
which  this  self-possessed  young  woman  met  the  whole  thing 
and  took  charge  of  it. 

I  supposed  it  was  the  command  of  money  that  gave  her 
such  unlimited  assurance.  The  back  tyre  held  out,  though 
it  was  dead  just  as  I  pulled  up  before  the  porch  of  Stanways, 
uncommonly  glad  to  get  there. 


VIII 

THE  HOME-COMING 

The  maid-servant  opened  the  great  doors  for  us  and  took 
charge  of  the  baggage  in  the  car  while  I  walked  behind  the 
two  girls  into  the  vast  emptiness  of  the  hall.  It  wasn't  a  very 
impressive  entry,  but  my  father  made  up  for  it. 

He  was  waiting  for  us  in  the  library  and  he  came  forward 
at  once  to  greet  Elaine,  who  was  leading  the  party.  I  couldn't 
help  feeling  proud  of  the  old  man — not  for  the  first  time. 
He  was  extraordinarily  distinguished;  Dad,  in  his  evening 
kit,  does  look  a  thoroughbred  right  down  to  his  fetlocks,  and 
there  is  a  charm  in  that  smile  of  his  that  would  wile  a  bird 
off  a  tree.  I  could  see  that  Elaine  took  to  him  at  first  sight. 
He  gave  her  both  his  hands,  as  if  he  were  a  prince  welcoming 
home  a  long-lost  member  of  the  family,  and  it  was  just  right 
— not  overdone  in  the  least. 

"Stanways  is  yours.  Miss  Corbyn,"  he  said,  "we're  going 
to  make  the  dull  old  place  just  as  pleasant  as  we  can  for  you." 

"That's  nice  of  you.  Lord  Trent;  I've  a  feeling  I'm  going 
to  have  the  time  of  my  life  here,"  said  Elaine.  "I've  had  all  the 
travelling  I  want  for  some  time  to  come." 

"A  comfortable  drive  down — no  delay?"  he  asked. 

]VIiss  Corbyn  nodded  with  that  quiet  little  smile  of  hers. 

"Yes,  I  can  give  your  son  a  diploma  for  good  driving."  ^ 

"So  glad.  I'm  fond  of  Ken,  he  is  all  I've  got,  but  I 
shouldn't  think  much  of  him  if  he  couldn't  do  a  little  thing 
like  that,"  said  Dad,  laying  a  hand  affectionately  on  my 
shoulder.  Elaine  turned  as  if  by  an  afterthought  to  present 
Jenny,  who  was  standing  timorously  in  the  background.  He 
seemed  to  wonder  why  she  hadn't  done  it  before. 

"My  friend.  Miss  Craddock,"  she  said  briefly.  "Jenny, 
meet  Lord  Trent." 


42  BLOODMONEY 

My  father  never  misses  any  detail  of  a  woman's  appearance, 
especially  a  pretty  woman,  and  he  is  an  uncommonly  good 
judge.  He  had  already,  I  guessed,  formed  his  own  opinion  of 
Jenny  Craddock's  looks,  that  wistful  childish  charm  of  hers, 
her  dowdy  travelling  clothes  and  her  obviously  subordinate 
position  to  Elaine;  her  consciousness  of  it  too.  His  reception 
of  her  was  just  as  cordial  and  friendly;  it  was  so  well  done  that 
I  saw  her  flush  a  little  with  pleasure. 

But  I,  who  knew  him  so  well,  felt  that  there  was  a 
difference;  for  some  reason  she  did  not  suit  him,  he  would 
have  been  considerably  better  pleased  if  Elaine  had  arrived 
alone,  or  at  least  had  brought  anybody  with  her  except  Jenny 
Craddock.  There  came  to  me  at  that  moment  something  I 
had  never  felt  before;  a  resentment  and  a  hostility  to  my 
father.  It  was  as  if  we  were  on  opposite  sides  of  a  barrier. 

"We're  going  to  be  friends  Miss  Craddock,  are  we  not?" 
he  said.  "Why— what's  this?" 

Elaine  had  handed  him  an  envelope. 

"I  thought  I'd  give  you  this  right  away,"  she  said,  "it's 
my  letter  of  introduction  from  your  agent  in  New  York." 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  matter  Miss  Corbyn,"  he  said  smiling, 
and  tossed  it  carelessly  on  the  table;  he  seemed  rather  em- 
barrassed at  her  directness.  "And  now — you'd  like  to  go  up 
to  your  quarters  wouldn't  you — after  a  trying  journey." 
He  pressed  the  bell.  "Supper  whenever  you  are  ready — I 
hope  you'll  like  your  rooms,  they  are  side  by  side,  my 
housekeeper  will  show  you  to  them.  She's  very  capable. 
Whatever  you  want  done,  tell  her  and  she'll  do  it." 

"I've  heard  of  the  old  EngHsh  housekeeper;  I  guess  she'll 
suit  this  wonderful  old  place  of  yours,"  said  Elaine,  looking 
curiously  round  the  vast,  shabby  room.  "It's  like  reading 
Bracehridge  Hall."  She  paused  a  moment.  "You  don't 
keep  men-servants.  Lord  Trent?" 

"I've  found  men-servants  unsatisfactory.  The  old,  reliable 


THE    HOME-COMING  43 

breed  is  dying  out,"  said  my  father,  and  just  then  the  house- 
keeper came  in,  regulation  pattern,  billowing  in  black  silk 
and  beads.  It  always  beat  me  how  anyone  could  look  so 
like  a  peer's  housekeeper  as  Mrs.  Jessop  did.  She  dropped  a 
little  curtsey  to  Elaine,  taking  no  particular  notice  of  Jenny, 
and  took  the  two  girls  upstairs.  As  soon  as  we  were  alone 
my  father  turned  to  me. 

"Ken,  what  do  you  think  of  Miss  Corbyn?" 

"I  think  that  if  you  expect  to  get  the  better  of  that  girl  and 
her  bank  account  Dad,  you've  got  another  guess  coming." 

"You  think  that?"  But  he  said  complacently,  "But  who 
ever  supposed  I  expected  anything  of  the  sort,  I  find  her 
charming.  And  I  can  see  that  you  like  her." 

"Like  her!  Well — there's  a  good  deal  in  her  to  admire." 

"Not  a  bad  beginning,"  he  said  smiling.  "And  you've 
made  an  excellent  impression  on  her — better  than  you  know." 

I  closed  the  door. 

"Look  here,  sir,"  I  said,  "you  had  better  tell  me  now, 
just  what  you  know  about  Miss  Corbyn." 

"I've  already  told  you  that  I  know  nothing,"  he  replied, 
opening  the  letter  she  had  given  him  and  glancing  at  it. 

That  decided  me.  If  he  was  going  to  keep  his  own  counsel, 
I  would  keep  mine.  He  chose  to  play  his  own  hand,  and  not 
a  word  would  he  get  out  of  me  upon  anything  that  had 
happened. 

"Ail  right  sir,  if  you  say  so.  You  know  nothing  of  her — nor 
even  whether  she  is  Elaine  Corbyn  at  all,  and  not  an 
imposter." 

"Don't  be  absurd  Ken,"  he  said  putting  the  letter  and  a 
couple  of  enclosures  into  his  pocket-book;  I  thought  I  caught 

k sight  of  a  cheque.  "That  is  the  one  thing  you  can  take  as 
final.  Did  she  tell  you  much  about  herself,  on  the  road — 
did  anything  unusual  happen?" 
I  looked  at  him  quickly. 


44  BLOOD    MONEY 

"She  did  not,"  I  said.  "And  anything  that  does  happen, 
she'll  prefer  I  should  keep  it  to  myself — ^you  may  as  well 
remember  that." 

"Quite  right,"  he  said,  "when  a  woman,  and  a  guest  into 
the  bargain  wants  any  sort  of  a  secret  to  be  respected,  surely 
one  can  do  no  less.  In  these  days  my  boy,  never  try  to  dip 
too  deeply  into  any  girl's  past — any  more  than  you  would 
wish  her  to  enquire  into  yours.  Then  you've  nothing  to  tell 
me?" 

"One  thing,  and  then  I've  done,"  said  I.  "Do  you  know 
that  discharged  flunkey  of  yours,  Linke,  tried  to  blackmail 
me  before  I  left  the  house?" 

"An  ugly  word,  blackmail,"  said  my  father,  "one  of  the 
most  unpleasant  words  I  know." 

"It's  an  ugly  thing." 

"Very.  I  suppose  that  was  the  reason  of  the  scuffle  I 
heard  under  my  window — a  noise  as  of  something  soft  being 
violently  hit.  It  was  natural,  but  rather  crude  of  you.  Ken." 

"I'm  apt  to  be  crude  if  people  try  that  sort  of  thing  on 
me.  You  didn't,  I  suppose,  hear  what  he  said  to  me?" 

I  told  him  in  a  few  words.  My  father  listened  as  if  it  were 
something  of  no  importance,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"A  creature  of  that  sort  will  try  to  make  money  out  of 
anything.  It  really  can't  matter  seriously.  I  believe  Ken — 
you  will  not  see  any  more  of  Linke." 

"Shan't  I?  I'm  rather  hoping  that  I  shall,"  I  said,  and 
made  for  the  door  abruptly. 

"Forget  it,  and  devote  yourself  to  making  our  guest  feel  at 
home . . ,  a  very  pleasant  duty.  And  by  the  way,  Ken,"  he  added 
warningly.  "That  little  companion — Miss  Craddock " 

I  stopped. 

"A  contrast  in  every  way  to  her  employer.  They  don't 
seem  to  get  on  very  well;  rather  curious  she  should  have 
brought  her  here.  A  pretty  child,  don't  you  think.  But " 


THEHOME-COMING  45 

"What  about  her!"  I  said  curtly,  turning  to  him. 

"Nothing,  Ken." 

I  went  out,  seething  with  annoyance.  There  is  a  power,  a 
sort  of  driving  force  in  my  father,  quiet  as  he  is,  that  one 
can't  help  recognising.  I  have  never  met  the  person,  however 
obstinate  or  cunning,  who  could  baulk  him  in  the  long  run, 
when  he  was  set  on  anything.  But  for  the  present  I  had  more 
than  I  could  stand,  I  ran  the  car  down  into  the  garage, 
ignoring  the  flattened  tyre,  and  incidentally  looked  her  over 
for  a  bullet  mark.  I  found  what  looked  like  a  groove  in  the  side 
of  the  saloon  body,  but  even  then  could  not  be  certain  what 
it  was. 

Only  one  thing  I  felt  sure  of  in  all  this  puzzling  business 
— before  long  there  would  be  the  devil  to  pay.  Who,  I 
wondered,  would  have  to  meet  the  bill?  Probably  me. 


IX 

MR.  GORDON  CRIEFF 

H  A  L  F  an  hour  later  we  were  all  at  supper  in  the  old  dining- 
hall,  and  I  never  saw  anything  like  the  way  those  two  girls 
brightened  up  and  looked  happy  and  comfortable  and  at  ease, 
before  it  was  half  over.  Stanways  might  have  been  home  to 
them.  It  was  my  father's  doing  and  not  mine;  he  has  the  social 
gift  as  very  few  men  have  it.  It's  a  thing  you  can't  explain 
or  put  into  words.  I  felt  it  myself,  and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 
the  rough  stuff  we  had  been  through  that  evening  had  never 
happened  at  all.  We  were  all  cosy  and  cheery  together,  amid 
lights  and  laughter,  crystal  and  flowers.  Elaine  got  on 
amazingly  with  Dad,  and  seemed  impressed  by  him,  though 
I  couldn't  believe  the  idea  that  he  was  Trent  of  Denham 
really  cut  any  ice  with  her  at  all,  and  her  attitude  still  baffled 
me.  But  she  was  intensely  interested  in  him,  and  in  the 
house,  and  in  everything  about  her. 

"I  think  this  old  place  of  yours  is  just  wonderful,  Lord 
Trent,"  she  said  as  we  went  into  the  hall  for  coffee,  where 
a  great  fire  of  logs  was  blazing  on  the  hearth.  "I'm  going  to 
get  your  son  to  show  me  every  secret  it  has,  and  explain  it 
to  me." 

"Ken  doesn't  value  it  as  he  should — he  hasn't  the  historic 
sense,"  said  Dad.  "But  you  have  got  it,  Elaine — I'm  going 
to  call  you  Elaine.  Surnames  are  much  too  formal  between 
host  and  guests,"  he  added  smiling.  "It  falls  in  with  our 
little  arrangement  you  know — anything  else  would  look 
queer  before  strangers." 

Elaine  laughed. 

"Certainly  I'm  Elaine  to  my  friends,"  she  said.  "How 
many  children  have  you,  Lord  Trent?" 

"Only  Ken,  but  he's  a  host  in  himself.  Yes — he'll  have  the 


MR.GORDONCRIEFF  47 

place  some  day;  a  pity,  isn't  it.  And  I  haven't  been  feeling  very 
fit  lately.  But  I  shall  keep  him  out  of  it  as  long  as  I  can." 

"I  certainly  would!"  said  Elaine.  She  was  wandering  round 
the  room,  inspecting  the  pictures  ranged  on  the  panelled 
walls,  portraits  of  bygone  Rolfes.  They  were  an  imposing 
show.  Dad  had  not  yet  been  able  to  raise  an5rthing  on  them 
as  they  were  heirlooms.  Why,  I  don't  know,  for  I  believe 
most  of  them  were  copies;  the  originals  had  been  sold  at 
Christies  by  a  predecessor. 

"Are  those  family  portraits?"  said  Jenny  Craddock  to  me. 
"That  one  with  the  lace  ruffles  and  the  side-locks  down  over 
his  shoulders  might  be  yourself  in  fancy  dress,"  she  laughed, 
and  added,  "I've  never  seen  such  a  likeness." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  I,  "that's  Carteret  Rolfe  the  Cavalier; 
the  biggest  ruffian  of  his  period.  The  old  boy  in  blue  on 
the  quarter-deck  leaning  on  his  sword  with  the  Rock  of 
Gibraltar  behind  him  is  Admiral  Rolfe,  one  of  Nelson's 
crowd.  He's  looking  down  his  nose  as  if  he  hated  the  sight  of 
me  and  didn't  think  much  of  his  descendant." 

Elaine  interrupted.  She  had  pulled  from  a  shelf  a  big 
red  book  which  was  evidently  new  to  her:  Burke's  Peerage. 
It's  no  favourite  of  mine,  the  sight  of  that  fat,  gilded  volume 
always  galls  me — perhaps  because  it's  an  absurdity  to  a  man 
without  a  cent  of  his  own.  It  opened  naturally  at  the  page 
"TRENT  OF  DENHAM,"  with  a  sprawling  picture  of  the 
arms,  two  griffins  clawing  at  a  shield  that  displays  three  spur- 
rowels  in  chief  and  a  decapitated  head,  'gutteedesang*  which 
means '  spotted  withblood' ;  and  the  crest ,  a  broken  tilting-spear . 

"Why,  Lord  Trent,  this  is  some  record!"  she  exclaimed, 
"you're  entered  up  here  just  like  a  prize  dog  in  the  Kennel 
Club  book!  .  .  .  Mervyn  Stanley  Charles;  14th  Baron,  created 
1326.  Then  your  name's  Mervjoi?" 

"No.  That  was  my  cousin;  the  book's  out  of  date." 

"I  see.  There's  enough  blood  in  this  picture  to  satisfy  a 


48  BLOOD    MONEY 

Chinese  hatchet-man.  Motto,  'Thou  shalt  want  ere  I  want.' 
That's  frank,  anyway.  'Lineage  . .  .  Hugo  Rolfe,  in  1134  .  .  .' 
— Why,  I've  traced  a  duke  in  your  Une!  You're  the  Duke  of 
Axminster's  family." 

Dad  chuckled. 

"Pardon  me,  dear  lady — the  Duke  of  Axminster  is  of  my 
family.  We're  the  senior  branch;  and  Axminster  is  nearly  as 
broke  as  I  am." 

The  two  girls  were  deep  in  the  book,  as  interested  as 
children,  and  just  then  the  door  opened  quietly  and  the 
housekeeper  appeared,  looking  so  agitated  that  I  saw  there 
was  something  seriously  wrong.  My  father  came  across,  and 
as  he  joined  her  just  outside  I  heard  her  whisper: 

"My  lord,  there  is  a  person  in  the  breakfast-room — I 
don't  know  who  he  is  or  how  he  got  into  the  house;  he  says  he 
must  see  you  at  once.  And  there's  another  man  down  in  the 
servants'  hall " 

The  door  closed  behind  them  and  I  was  left  to  look  after 
Elaine,  who  did  not  seem  to  have  noticed  the  interruption. 
I  continued  talking  to  the  girls,  though  feeling  uneasy,  and 
in  a  few  moments  I  heard  a  disturbance,  and  voices  raised  in 
high  dispute.  There  certainly  was  trouble.  I  got  away  as 
unobtrusively  as  I  could,  passing  through  the  lobby  opposite 
where  a  swing-door  opened  into  the  morning-room 

I  found  my  father  standing  by  the  table,  on  which  lay  an 
unfolded  document  close  to  his  hand.  It  seemed  to  me  he  was 
looking  ten  years  older.  He  was  facing  a  large  stout  man  who 
glared  at  him  aggressively;  a  man  with  a  dark,  perspiring 
face,  a  pair  of  fierce,  keen  eyes,  and  a  hooked  nose. 

"Made  an  error,  have  I?"  he  cried,  "By  heck!  You've  made 
the  biggest  error  of  your  life.  You " 

"Will  you  lower  your  voice,  Mr.  Crieff?"  said  my  father 
quietly,  "I  don't  care  to  be  shouted  at  in  my  own  house." 

The  intruder  moved  nearer  to  him,  menacingly. 


MR.GORDONCRIEFF  49 

"I'm  to  choose  the  tone  I  speak  to  you  in,  am  I?  Your 
house — I  like  that!  By  heck,  that's  good!" 

For  a  moment  I  felt  a  sense  of  relief,  which  turned  quickly 
to  wrath.  I  had  rather  expected  to  find  the  police  on  deck; 
but  I  knew  this  man,  Gordon  Crieff — I  had  seen  him  before. 
What  his  business  was  I  didn't  exactly  know,  but  his  manner 
roused  my  temper,  my  hands  itched  to  put  him  out  through 
the  window;  I  glanced  at  my  father,  but  a  warning  flicker  of 
his  eyes  stopped  me. 

"You  have  a  bailiff  in  my  kitchen,  and  this  is  your  writ, 
Mr.  Crieff,"  said  Dad;  "to  begin  with,  you  can  neither  install 

a  bailiff  nor  serve  a  writ  after  six  o'clock " 

The  fellow  laughed  unpleasantly. 

"Can't  I!  /  know  what  I  can  do!  Don't  you  try  and  bluff 
me.  I've  got  you — like  that."  He  opened  his  big  hand  and 
clenched  the  fingers  slowly  together.  "I  get  in  while  the 
getting's  good;  see  that  bit  of  paper?  Five  hundred  pounds  to 
that!  Writ?  I'll  serve  you  a  copy  in  the  morning,  if  that's  all. 
"My  man  stays  in  possession,  and  so  do  I!  You  can't 
kick.  You'd  like  to  throw  me  out — ^you  can't  do  it.  Why?" 
He  flipped  an  envelope  from  his  pocket,  and  took  from  it 
a  cheque  which  he  opened  and  showed  to  Dad,  holding  it  up 
— well  out  of  reach. 

"Take  a  look  at  it!  Your  cheque.  Two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds;  made  out  to  me.  For  money  received,  mark  you. 
And  turned  down  at  the  Bank — dishonoured."  He  craned 
his  neck  forward.  "You  get  what  that  means?  False  pretences 
— fraud!  Your  arrest's  only  waiting  for  a  word  from  me — 
and  you'll  get  it  in  the  morning." 

I  saw  Dad's  eyelids  droop  a  little,  he  said  nothing. 
It  was  not  the  pleasantest  moment  of  my  life.  Gordon  Crieff 
glanced  at  me,  and  looked  away  again  as  if  I  were  of  no  account. 
He  was  right.  There  was  nothing  I  could  do;  the  simple  meth- 
ods that  I  generally  use  for  emergencies  were  of  no  use  here. 


50  BLOOD    MONEY 

"What  you  want,  Mr.  Crieff,"  said  my  father  calmly,  "is 
money.  It's  what  you've  always  wanted.  You  couldn't  have 
chosen  a  worse  moment  than  this  to  make  trouble.  If  you  had 
given  me  time " 

"Time!"  jeered  Crieff.  "I'll  show  you  the  sort  of  'time' 
you'll  get.  Tot  up  the  score;  five  hundred  and  the  two-fifty 
doubled,  call  it  an  even  thousand " 

"It's  utterly  impossible,  now,"  said  my  father.  "You 
might  as  well  ask  me  for  the  National  Debt." 

"Yes,  for  all  there  is  in  this  place  to  pay  it  .  .  .  everything 
here  is  hocked  already — think  I  don't  know  that?  But  you 
can  raise  it!  You've  got  your  own  ways  of  doing  it — you 
can  always  raise  the  stuff  if  you're  cornered."  He  pointed  a 
thick,  accusing  forefinger  at  Dad.  "You've  twenty-four 
hours  to  do  it  in,  while  I  sit  on  the  bolt-hole!  See?" 

"You  should  be  a  judge  of  what  a  man  will  do  when  he  is 
cornered,"  said  my  father  quietly.  "You  have  got  me,  as  you 
say,  but  I  know  the  futility  of  arguing  with  such  blood- 
suckers as  you,  Mr.  Crieff.  I  would  as  soon  make  terms  with 
a  horse-leech." 

The  man  exploded.  I  never  saw  anyone  in  such  a  fury. 
He  struck  the  table  with  his  fist. 

"You  would?  It's  Hertford  Jail  for  you,  and  that  suits  me 
all  the  way!"  he  shouted,  "you " 

The  door  opened,  and  Elaine  came  in,  with  Jenny  behind 
her.  She  stopped  short  as  Crieff  turned  to  her. 

"Oh  come  in,  all  of  you!"  he  cried.  "You're  welcome — this 
is  where " 

"Stop!"  said  my  father,  his  face  grey  and  drawn,  "not 
before  my  guest.  Miss  Corbyn,  this  is  private " 

"Private  nothing!"  snarled  Crieff,  "I've  done  with 
privacy."  He  faced  Elaine  who  stood  petrified.  "Here  madam, 
if  you  are  his  guest — do  you  know  who  this  man  is  that  calls 
himself  'Lord  Trent'?  A  crook  and  swindler!" 


X 

HARD  BARGAINING 

X  H  E  R  E  are  times  when  the  presence  of  women  makes 
things  horribly  difficuh  for  a  man.  I  got  a  gHmpse  of  Jenny 
Craddock's  white,  startled  face  behind  the  taller  form  of 
Elaine,  who  looked  wonderingly  at  Crieff  and  then  turned 
and  went  out  without  a  word. 

Following  the  click  of  the  swing-door  there  was  a  tense 
silence  for  several  seconds.  A  bomb-shell  of  this  kind  is  apt 
to  paralyse  even  a  quick  thinker,  and  I  don't  know  that  I 
am  ever  that.  In  fact  I  was  past  thinking  at  all.  Gordon 
Crieff  was  paying  attention  to  me  for  the  first  time,  and  as  I 
moved  over  to  him  he  faced  me  and  stepped  back,  turning  a 
sickly  green  colour;  the  glare  died  out  of  his  eyes. 

"Now  they've  gone,"  said  I,  "I'll  take  a  hand." 

"Leave  the  man  alone,  Ken!"  said  my  father,  "there's 
nothing  you  can  do." 

The  door  opened  again  as  he  was  speaking  and  Elaine 
Corbyn  came  in  alone,  and  just  as  self-possessed  as  ever.  I  had 
thought  we  had  done  with  her  and  I  could  have  sworn  aloud. 

"I  don't  know  that  this  is  exactly  my  business,"  she  said, 
"but  as  I've  been  pulled  into  it  I  think  I  ought  to  hear  a  little 
more."  She  turned  to  Crieff. 

"You  say,  'This  man  who  calls  himself  Lord  Trent.'  Do 
you  mean  that  he  is  not  Lord  Trent?" 

"He  may  be  the  devil  for  what  I  care?"  growled  Crieff. 
"He's  in  my  debt  but  that's  not  all;  he's  swindled  me  and 
defrauded  me,  and  insulted  me!" 

"But  weren't  you  a  little  insulting  yourself?"  She  looked 
at  my  father,  who  had  sunk  into  a  chair  by  the  table  and 
dropped  his  chin  in  his  hand;  he  did  not  meet  her  eyes.  It 
was  impossible  for  anybody  not  to  feel  sorry  for  him,  even  one 


52  BLOOD    MONEY 

who  was  not  his  son.  "There  are  two  sides  to  every  case,  but 
of  course  if  you'd  rather  have  me  withdraw  at  once,  I  will." 
"If  you're  his  guest,  madam,  my  tip  to  you  is  to  get  out  of 
this  place  before  something  happens  that  you  won't  fancy!" 
said  Crieff.  It  surprised  me  more  than  ever  that  a  man  of  his 
profession  should  have  such  a  slender  control  of  his  temper. 
"Gordon  Crieff  is  my  name,  and  aside  from  my  having  an 
execution  on  this  house  for  five  hundred,  here's  his  cheque 
for  two-fifty  dishonoured  on  a  deal  that  means  just  plain 
fraud  and  arrest  by  the  police;  they  come  right  in  and  that's 
the  one  thing  you  can  bet  on!" 

"Well,  Mr.  Crieff,  I  don't  know  that  I  admire  your  way  of 
doing  business,  since  you've  dragged  me  into  it,"  said 

Elaine.  "Then  Lord  Trent  owes  you,  in  all ?" 

"A  round  thousand,'  replied  Crieff  grimly,  "and  he  can  no 
more  pay  it  than  he  could  buy  the  Crown  Jewels — according 
to  him.  It  looks  as  if  he's  right  there.  He's  the  only  man  that's 
ever  been  able  to  do  me  down." 

Miss  Corbyn  looked  enquiringly  at  my  father. 
"I  can't  deny  this  debt,"  he  said  slowly.  "It  is  true  Mr. 
Crieff  has  judgement  and  execution  against  me  for  five 
hundred  pounds.  And  against  a  later  advance,  he  has  a 
cheque  for  two-fifty — which  has  not  been  met.  I  was  badly 
cornered,  pressed  for  money,  and  I  contracted  the  debt.  I 
thought  I  should  be  able  to  meet  it.  But  I  can't." 
He  raised  his  head  wearily. 

"Since  I've  told  you  that,  Miss  Corbyn,  there's  just  one 
thing  more  I'll  ask  you  to  believe.  All  I  have  had  out  of  it, 
first  and  last,  is  two  hundred  pounds." 

"Well,  I  do  believe  that,"  she  said,  her  eyes  on  his  face. 
"May  I  take  a  glance  at  this  paper?" 

She  picked  up  the  writ  from  the  table  and  scanned  it. 
"Yes,  that  doesn't  need  any  effort  to  believe,"  she  said,  and 
turned  to  Crieff. 


HARDBARGAINING  53 

"I'll  pay  this  debt  myself." 

"You'll— what!"  gasped  Crieff. 

He  rose  from  his  chair.  I  saw  him  look  at  my  father, 
just  the  fleetest  glance,  and  he  faced  Elaine. 

"Why — what  is  it  to  you,  madam?    You " 

"Never  mind  what  it  is  to  me;  you  know  nothing  about 
me." 

"Well,  this  beats  the  band!"  said  Crieff.    "What— look" 
here,  wait  a  bit,  I  don't  know  that  this  suits  me.    I  don't 
say  I'll  accept  a  settlement  from  you " 

"What  you  want  is  money,"  returned  Elaine,  rising,  "and 
you're  going  to  get  it — from  me." 

She  left  the  room  abruptly.  There  was  silence  for  several 
moments  after  she  had  gone.  Crieff  gave  a  short,  expressive 
whistle  between  his  teeth,  and  sat  down  again.  My  father 
looked  at  the  swinging  door  with  a  dazed  expression  on  his 
face. 

As  for  me,  Elaine's  offer  simply  knocked  me  endways.  It 
was  great  of  her,  of  course.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  been 
glad  of  any  proposal  that  put  my  honoured  parent  out  of 
reach  of  the  law.  But  the  situation  was  perfectly  ghastly. 

"See  here,  sir,"  I  said  under  my  breath,  "we  can't  let  her 
do  this — there  must  be  some  other  way  out  of  the  business." 

"Ken,"  he  murmured,  "I  never  dreamed  of  this  .  .  .  but 
my  boy,  what  can  I  do?" 

"Listen,"  broke  in  Mr.  Crieff  sardonically,  "lemme  tell 
you  something " 

"Let  me  tell  you  something,"  I  said,  turning  on  him,  "if 
you  say  another  word  you  oily  porch-climbing  gangster,  you 
crawling  hook-worm,  I'll  kill  you!" 

All  the  creature  did  was  to  gape  blankly  at  me,  like  a 
stranded  fish,  and  Elaine  returned  just  then  as  cool  and 
businesslike  as  ever,  with  a  cheque-book  and  a  wad  of 
notes  in  one  hand.  I  suddenly  felt  helpless,  a  moment  before 


54  BLOODMONEY 

I  would  have  broken  Mr.  Gordon  Crieff's  neck  and  accepted 
the  consequences  with  pleasure.  I  made  for  the  door,  unable 
to  bear  any  more. 

"Don't  go,  Mr.  Rolfe,"  said  Elaine,  "I  shall  want  your 
help."  She  seated  herself  at  the  table,  and  produced  a  little 
gold  fountain-pen. 

"Now  Mr.  Crieff,  if  that's  your  name,  draw  up  a  quittance 
to  Lord  Trent  for  the  entire  debt;  if  not  I'll  do  it  for  you," 
she  said,  lifting  a  sheet  of  paper  out  of  the  stand  beside  her. 
"Here  are  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  in  English  bank- 
notes, covering  Lord  Trent's  cheque  that  you've  got  there, 
and  which  you'll  return  to  me.  For  the  balance  you  will  have 
to  take  my  open  draft  on  the  London  branch  of  the  Guar- 
antee Trust;  you  can  receipt  it  'paid  by  cheque'." 

"Why  will  I!"  returned  Crieff,  "I  don't  have  to  accept 
your  draft  or  anybody's — it's  not  currency!" 

"I'll  show  you  why  you  will,"  said  Elaine,  and  she  drew 
up  on  the  paper  a  formal  discharge  which  was  brief  enough, 
for  it  did  not  take  six  lines.  She  pushed  it  across  to  Crieff 
with  the  notes  and  a  cheque  that  she  tore  out  of  her  book.  He 
glanced  at  the  form  with  knitted  brows. 

"Five  hundred  pounds?"  he  exclaimed  indignantly, 
"forget  it!    A  cold  thousand." 

Elaine  paused. 

"You  won't  take  less?" 

"Not  a  brass  cent!  I'll  have  my  due." 

"But  if  Lord  Trent  has  had  only  two  hundred?  Do  you 
deny  that?" 

"You're  taking  his  word  for  what  he's  had!"  snapped 
Crieff.  "Look  at  the  writ — judgement  for  five  hundred,  and 
that  includes  interest  and  costs.  He  didn't  even  defend  it." 

"Maybe  he  couldn't.  I'm  defending  him.  I  think  two- 
fifty  ought  to  be  enough  on  the  writ." 

"Think  again!" 


HARDBARGAINING  55 

"I  have  thought,  Mr.  CriefF.  Then  there's  two-fifty  more 
for  the  dishonoured  cheque;  how  does  that  make  up  a 
thousand?  As  I'm  paying  you,  I  ought  to  know." 

"Doubled,"  said  Crieff  briefly.  ''He  knows  why!" 

Elaine  turned  to  my  father. 

"Mr.  Crieff"  claims  five  hundred  from  you  on  that  cheque?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Corbyn." 

"Under  the  threat  that  if  you  didn't  raise  it — which  he 
must  have  thought  you  could — he  would  prosecute  you  for 
fraud?" 

My  father  nodded,  staring  dumbly  at  the  carpet. 

"I  heard  him.  Of  course,  you  were  in  a  very  awkward 
position.  Lord  Trent.  Now  he  has  repeated  it  before  me — 
because  I'm  going  to  pay.  We've  three  witnesses.  Mr. 
Rolfe,  ring  up  your  local  police  headquarters.  Tell  them  to 
send  round  here  at  once  and  arrest  Gordon  Crieff  for 
blackmail." 

A  spasm  of  inward  laughter  shook  me.  This  girl  was 
great.  I  slipped  across  to  the  telephone  and  shot  an  emer- 
gency police  call  through  to  Wheatbridge.  The  veins 
swelled  on  Crieff's  thick  neck  and  he  started  up  from  his 
chair. 

"What  in  thunder  do  you  mean?"  he  exclaimed, 
"why " 

"Sit  down,  you!"  snapped  out  Elaine.  "Mr.  Rolfe,  I  can 
rely  on  you  to  keep  this  man  in  the  room  till  the  police 
arrive?" 

"You  can  rely  on  just  that  little  thing!"  said  I,  as  the  call 
came  through. 

"By  heck,  you're  crazy!"  gasped  CriefF,  "you  can't " 

"Mr.  Crieff,  I'm  not  an  expert  on  English  law,  but 
American  law's  based  on  it  and  the  same  rule  holds  every- 
where," said  Elaine.  "If  you  demand  money  from  a  man  on 
the  threat  of  a  criminal  charge  and  hold  it  up  against  him 


56  BLOODMONEY 

till  he  pays,  that's  blackmail,  and  blackmail's  felony.  You 
know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  It  doesn't  matter  a  cent  whether 
you're  a  creditor  or  not.  Lord  Trent  can't  call  your  hand; 
but  I  can— and  do.  Get  on  with  it,  Mr.  Rolfe." 

"Hello — station!"  I  said.  "The  Inspector  on  duty, 
please." 

"Blackmailers  are  not  too  popular,  these  days,"  said 
Elaine,  rising,  "they  get  it  in  the  neck;  the  victim  gets 
protection.  We'll  have  you  in  the  cells  right  away,  and  you 
can  direct  your  prosecution  from  there.  Hurry  them,  Mr. 
Rolfe,  please;  they've  a  car  handy,  I  guess." 

"Here  wait — ^stop!"  said  Crieff,  the  perspiration  breaking 
out  on  his  forehead  and  I  saw  his  big  white  hands  trembling. 
"Hold  the  line,"  said  Elaine  quietly.  "Now  Mr.  Crieff,  if 
you've  any  wish  to  remain  a  free  man  to-night  ...  a  full 
quittance  of  that  debt.  Here's  your  five  hundred.  I  could  cut 
it  down  to  two,  but  I  hold  by  my  contracts.  Decide  quick! 
I'd  prefer  the  police  myself,  its  simpler  and  cheaper." 

"Gimme!"  said  Gordon  Crieff  huskily,  and  signed  at  the 
foot  of  the  document.  "Hang  up  that  damned  telephone!" 
"Ring  off,"  said  Elaine  to  me.  She  laid  the  notes  before 
her.  I  saw  her  signature,  Elaine  Corbyn,  in  a  fine  clear  hand 
on  the  bank  draft.  She  took  the  signed  paper  from  him, 
witnessed  it,  handed  it  to  me  to  do  the  same,  and  passed  it 
to  my  father,  who  took  it  dazedly. 

"Give  me  Lord  Trent's  cheque!"  she  said  to  Crieff,  who 
hesitated  a  moment,  glanced  at  her  face,  and  tossed  the 
cheque  across  to  her  as  if  it  burned  him.  She  inspected  it 
carefully,  and  folded  it  small.  She  turned  again  to  Crieff, 
who  had  stuffed  the  papers  into  his  pocket  shakily  and  stood 
silent,  his  face  moist  and  pulpy. 

"That  saved  you  two  years  in  the  jug,"  she  said.  "Mr. 
Rolfe,  if  I  were  you  I  would  put  this  gentleman  out  of 
Stanways— gently.  We've  done  with  him." 


XI 

SHADOWS  OF  THE  NIGHT 

I  OPENED  the  door,  and  Gordon  Crieff  took  a  last  look 
at  us  and  passed  out,  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  When  we  were 
outside  he  seemed  about  to  speak.  I  stopped  him  with  a  grip 
on  his  arm. 

"Crieff,"  I  said,  "you  have  a  friend  in  the  house  some- 
where— he  goes  with  you.  Sing  out  for  him  and  save  time." 

"Hyams!"  called  out  Crieff  huskily,  and  then  with  a 
shriek  as  I  squeezed  his  arm  a  little  tighter,  "Hyams!" 

"Yes,  guv'nor,"  said  a  voice,  and  a  dark,  shabby-looking 
man  came  out  of  the  passage  to  the  servants'  hall,  shambling 
like  a  bear. 

"We're  leaving,  Hyams — all  settled,"  gulped  Crieff.  The 
bailiff  made  no  comment;  he  evidently  took  in  the  situation 
and  I  think  he  was  glad  to  go,  for  when  I  opened  the  front 
doors  he  hurried  out  in  front  of  his  chief. 

"Good  night,  Crieff,"  I  said,  and  shot  him  down  the  steps. 
I  had  an  almost  overpowering  impulse  to  lift  my  foot  to  him, 
but  it  didn't  seem  worth  while  and  I  refrained.  I  saw  the  two 
of  them  disappear  into  the  night,  closed  the  doors,  and  went 
back  to  the  morning-room. 

I  was  not  feeling  triumphant;  my  emotions  were  of  the 
most  mingled  kind,  in  fact  I  liked  the  look  of  things  less  than 
ever.  I  found  my  father  holding  both  Elaine's  hands  in  his; 
if  there  were  no  tears  in  his  eyes  there  ought  to  have  been. 

"My  dear  lady!"  he  said,  "you  have  been  wonderful.  On 
my  honour,  everything  shall  be  returned  to  you  in  full.  .  .  . 
How  can  I  possibly  thank  you  for  the  way  you  came  to  the 
rescue  of  a  man  whose  case  was  so  hopeless " 

"Why,  don't  thank  me,  there's  no  need,"  said  Elaine 
quietly.  "Yes  ...  I'm  staying  on.  Sure,  for  the  present  any- 


58  BLOODMONEY 

way.  I  didn't  fancy  taking  my  orders  to  leave  at  Mr.  Crieff's 
hands.  Let  it  stand  at  that,  Lord  Trent.  Now  I  think  I'll  go 
to  my  room.  I'm  a  little  tired." 

She  nodded  to  me,  and  withdrew.  When  she  had  gone  my 
father  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  lit  one  of  his  excellent  cigars. 
His  hand  was  a  little  unsteady. 

"Ken,"  he  said,  "that  girl  has  a  heart  of  gold." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "and  a  big  gold  bank  balance.  Did  that  oily 
fellow  with  the  loud  voice  know  the  size  of  it,  when  he 
sneaked  in  here  to-night?" 

My  father  looked  at  me  from  under  his  eyebrows. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean.  Ken?"  he  said  slowly. 

I  had  to  say  it.  The  idea  had  been  growing  in  my  mind  for 
some  time  and  was  now  a  conviction;  I  couldn't  keep  it  to 
myself.  That  this  business  had  been  stage-managed;  a 
clever  confidence  trick — perhaps  not  so  clever  after  all, 
rather  sharp  and  desperate.  A  mere  killing,  even  if  deliber- 
ate, seemed  a  little  thing  in  comparison  with  this.  I  was 
feeling  perfectly  sick,  hating  Stanways,  and  myself,  and 
everyone  about  me. 

It  had  cost  the  girl  a  cold  five  hundred,  anyway.  But  how 
could  a  man  put  such  a  thing  to  his  father. 

"I  mean  that  Crieff  didn't  make  much  of  a  price  on  the 
division,"  I  said  grimly.  "He  was  knocked  down  fifty  per 
cent,  and  pretty  smartly  too." 

"Ken,  do  you  really  suggest  I  arranged  this  thing  with  the 
man  Crieff,"  he  said  gently.  "If  so  you  are — mistaken." 

I  looked  at  him  for  a  moment. 

"All  right,  sir,"  I  said.  "If  you  say  so,  of  course  I  believe 
you." 

Dad  sighed. 

"I  should  hope  so!  And  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  'sir,' 
Ken;  it's  so  old-fashioned,  it  stifles  the  confidence  that  ought 
to  flourish  between  father  and  son.  My  boy,  I  wouldn't  have 


SHADOWSOFTHENIGHT  59 

that  cold,  suspicious  mind  of  yours  for  anything.  I  admit  I 
made  a  bad  mistake,  as  a  man  is  apt  to  when  he's  hard 
pressed.  A  foolish  thing  to  do;  I  had  let  myself  get  into  that 
man's  power,  and  could  see  no  way  out  of  it." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "and  now  you're  in  Elaine  Corbyn's." 

I  went  up  to  my  room,  glad  to  get  away.  As  soon  as  I  was 
undressed  and  into  pyjamas  I  switched  out  the  light  and  sat 
on  the  sill  of  the  open  window,  reviewing  the  events  of  that 
amazing  evening,  trying  to  straighten  them  out  in  my  mind. 

Why  had  she  come  to  the  rescue?  The  money,  no  doubt, 
wasn't  so  much,  to  a  woman  as  wealthy  as  she.  But  why? 
Was  it  just  a  generous  gesture,  a  natural  touch  of  sympathy 
for  one  who  was  down  and  out?  Had  she  a  reason  of  her  own 
for  not  wishing  to  leave  Stanways,  strong  enough  to  make 
the  price  worth  while?  Or  was  it  a  bid  for  silence? 

Crieff's  advent,  unpleasant  though  it  had  been  for  all  of 
us,  seemed  to  me  less  important  anyway  than  the  things 
that  had  gone  before.  I  couldn't  make  them  fit  together;  I 
had  not  yet  got  hold  of  the  thread.  I  watched  the  moon 
slowly  sinking  over  the  cedars  in  the  park,  and  wondered 
what  sort  of  a  scene  it  shone  upon  now,  back  there  in  the 
Cranwell  chalk-pit,  where  we  had  left  the  dead  man.  The 
fire  must  have  died  down  long  since.  Had  it  attracted  in- 
vestigators to  the  spot,  and  were  they  poking  about  now 
among  the  wreckage? 

Somehow  I  didn't  care  much  what  happened  there.  Let 
come  of  it  what  might.  Away  to  the  left,  in  the  west  wing  of 
the  house,  the  lights  were  still  burning  behind  the  blinds  in 
Elaine  Corbyn's  big  three-windowed  room.  The  little  room 
beyond — Jenny  Craddock's — was  lit  too,  but  as  I  watched 
it  suddenly  darkened.  Elaine's  light  remained. 

A  remarkable  woman,  Elaine.  Well  able  to  look  after 
herself:  she  didn't  rouse  the  protective  instinct.  Yet  she 
must  have  roused  it  in  someone,  else  what  did  that  warning 


6o  BLOODMONEY 

message  mean  at  Euston,  which  had  seemed  to  me  only 
food  for  laughter  at  the  time?  Should  I  put  it  to  her;  or  keep 
it  to  myself?  I  was  not  admitted  to  her  confidence. 

One  thing  I  was  very  sure  I  would  never  mention  to  her, 
and  that  was  the  affair  of  Linke. 

I  had  almost  forgotten  Linke.  The  little  casual  black- 
mailer had  seemed  of  small  importance.  But  now,  to  me,  he 
suddenly  loomed  bigger  than  anybody  else,  in  the  light  of 
what  had  happened  since.  There  must  be  more  to  him  than 
I  guessed;  he  was  probably  the  key  to  the  mystery.  I  felt 
assured  I  hadn't  done  with  Linke.  And  whatever  else  he 
might  know  or  not  know,  the  remembrance  of  what  he  had 
overheard  in  the  library  when  my  father  was  propounding 
his  plans  for  Elaine,  made  me  more  bitter  than  ever.  It  was 
purely  a  personal  feeling.  There  was  doubtless  much  more 
in  Linke 's  ugly  little  mind  than  that.  I  stared  out  of  the 
window,  busy  with  speculation. 

I  could  see  the  back-entrance  steps,  where  I  had  encoun- 
tered Linke,  shining  white  in  the  gloom.  I  wished  I  had 
kicked  him  harder.  A  kick  that  would  land  him  on  the  far 
side  of  the  Styx  was  indicated. 

The  night  seemed  full  of  ghosts  and  shadows.  I  could  have 
sworn  I  saw  a  figure  moving  furtively  among  the  dark 
laurels  on  the  lawn  between  Elaine's  window  and  mine,  and 
heard  the  rustle  of  leaves.  I  drew  back,  and  watched,  but  not 
for  long.  It  was  only  a  stirring  of  the  night  wind,  and  a 
vision  bred  of  this  atmosphere  of  mystery  that  was  stifling 
me.  Dog  tired  and  full  of  disgust  I  threw  myself  on  the  bed, 
feeling  that  Stanways  might  be  burned  to  the  ground  with 
its  occupants  for  all  I  cared,  and  the  best  thing  that  could 
happen  to  it.  If  that  started,  there  was  only  one  person  I- 
should  feel  interested  in  rescuing.  I  would  make  a  bee-line 
for  Jenny  Craddock.  And  so  I  fell  asleep.  .  .  . 

A  feverish,  restless  sleep  it  was,  misted  by  queer  dreams 


SHADOWSOFTHENIGHT  6l 

and  dream-people,  of  whom  only  one  stood  out  vividly — 
Linke.  He  was  sitting  over  me,  grinning,  his  white  face  now 
small,  now  swelling  gigantically;  sometimes  savage  and 
menacing,  sometimes  cunning  and  friendly  and  detestable. 
His  hands  were  enormous,  with  fingers  like  the  hairy  limbs 
of  a  titanic  spider,  twiddling  and  quivering. 

"You  used  your  foot  to  me,"  said  the  dream-voice,  in  the 
intervals  of  demanding  incredible  sums  of  money,  and  I  saw 
the  shadow  of  a  policeman's  helmet  loom  behind  him, 
"there's  a  rope  waiting  for  somebody  before  its  finished. 
You  look  out  for  her.  I  can  give  you  the  winner,  but  you've 
got  to  get  together  with  me.  If  you  don't " 

Then  I  got  my  hands  round  his  neck,  trying  to  choke  the 
life  out  of  him;  but  my  fingers  were  inert  and  refused  action, 
with  that  maddening  helplessness  we  all  know  in  dreams. 
And  as  I  held  him,  his  eyes  closed,  his  jaw  dropped,  I  hea  d 
a  rending  noise  like  the  crack  of  a  whip,  my  hands  were  red 
with  blood — I  awoke  and  lay  shaking  and  perspiring.  So 
real  was  the  noise  that  my  head  still  seemed  to  ring  with  it. 

The  room  was  dark  and  quiet;  no  sound  but  the  derisive 
hoot  of  an  owl  among  the  cedars  outside. 


XII 
INSPECTOR  BEGBIE 

I  SUPPOSE  I  must  have  dozed  off  again  without  knowing 
it,  for  the  next  thing  I  was  aware  of  was  the  sun  flooding  the 
room,  and  the  chimes  of  the  stable  clock  striking  nine.  I 
bathed  and  dressed  hurriedly,  and  went  down. 

Everything  looked  pleasant  and  commonplace  in  the 
morning  light.  The  scent  of  curry  and  fish  and  bacon  stung 
the  nostrils  pleasantly,  a  parlourmaid  was  ranging  hot 
dishes  along  the  side  table  in  the  breakfast-room  but  there 
was  no  one  else  in  sight.  There  seldom  is  at  that  hour,  in  a 
country  house. 

"Miss  Corbyn  breakfasting  upstairs?"  I  asked. 

"The  young  lady,  sir?  She  hasn't  come  back  yet,"  said  the 
maid. 

"Come  back?" 

"She  came  down  very  early,  sir,  before  seven,  and  went 
away  in  a  car." 

I  remembered  not  to  show  any  surprise,  though  I  was 
feeling  only  half  awake. 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  "our  car?" 

"No,  sir.  I  think  she  rang  up  the  Wheatbridge  garage  as 
soon  as  she  could  make  the  exchange  hear.  They  sent  a  car 
round  just  after  seven,  and  she  left  in  that.  She  told  me  she'd 
be  back  later  and  not  to  wait  for  her,"  said  the  maid.  "Not 
your  car,  sir,  his  lordship  went  out  in  that  himself,  about 
eight  o'clock." 

Before  I  had  time  to  take  this  in  she  left  the  room  and 
Jenny  Craddock  appeared,  looking  as  fresh  as  a  little  moss- 
rose  washed  with  dew.  I  was  so  glad  to  see  her  that  I  didn't 
care  what  had  become  of  the  rest  of  the  Stan  ways  household. 
They  could  stay  out  of  the  picture  indefinitely,  for  me. 


INSPECTORBEGBIE  63 

"Come  along!"  I  said,  pulling  out  a  chair  for  her  and 
bringing  her  a  grape-fruit  and  the  powdered  sugar,  *'you 
don't  mind  breakfasting  with  me? — I'm  all  that's  left.  Miss 
Corbyn  seems  to  have  got  off  the  mark  early." 

She  nodded,  but  said  nothing.  Now  that  I  looked  at  her 
closer  she  seemed  anxious  and  distraite;  her  eyes  were 
troubled.  I  hated  to  see  her  that  way;  such  a  dainty  little 
creature  ought  to  have  been  out  of  the  reach  of  trouble. 

"My  father's  made  a  daybreak  start,  too,"  I  added,  "I 
feel  a  perfect  sluggard." 

"Your  father!"  she  said,  a  little  startled.  "Do  you  know 
when  he'll  be  back?" 

"I  don't,"  said  I,  "he  might  not  be  back  at  all." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean!" 

"It  wouldn't  surprise  me  if  he's  eloped  with  your  friend 
Miss  Corbyn,"  said  I,  helping  myself  to  a  grilled  sole. 
"They  both  seem  pretty  quick  movers." 

She  laid  down  her  fork,  with  a  little  peal  of  laughter. 
She  laughed  delightfully,  I  was  glad  to  hear  her  laugh  at 
anything,  even  at  that.  And,  by  the  way,  what  a  happy  way 
out  it  would  have  been  if  only  it  were  true.  Unluckily  it 
wasn't  even  possible. 

"If  they  have,"  I  added,  "when  my  stepmother  comes 
back  she'll  probably  sling  me  out  of  the  ancestral  home.  I 
don't  think  she  has  much  use  for  me." 

"That's  a  mistake  of  yours,"  said  Jenny  quietly,  "she 

thinks  a  heap  of  you.  She  told  me  last  night "  she  stopped 

short,  and  added  with  a  burst  of  enthusiasm,  that  surprised 
me,  "Mr.  Rolfe,  don't  you  think  she's  just  wonderful?" 

"I  have  the  profoundest  admiration  for  Miss  Corbyn," 
said  I,  sprinkling  red  pepper  on  my  sole. 

"So  you  ought  to  have!"  she  said  warmly,  and  I  felt 
myself  growing  redder  than  the  pepper,  and  hotter;  re- 
membering the  settlement  with  Crieff. 


64  BLOODMONEY 

"No  doubt,"  I  said,  "if  you  mean 


"I  don't  mean  anything,"  she  interrupted  quickly,  with 
some  confusion,  "except  that  Elaine  is  a  woman  in  a  thousand. 
Not  just  because  she  stood  up  for  Lord  Trent  when  he — 
well,  when  he  was  having  a  little  trouble.  There  isn't 
so  much  in  that,  considering  what  you  did  for  her  yesterday. 
But  that's  like  Elaine.  She  hasn't  always  been  wealthy. 
She's  known  what  it  is  to  have  trouble  herself.  Anyway," 
she  added,  "you're  glad  she  is  staying  on,  aren't  you?" 

"Glad?  I  could  go  singing  about  the  house!"  said  I,  "for 
as  long  as  she  stays  you'll  stay  too,  won't  you?" 

"I  suppose  I  shall  stay  as  long  as  she  wants  me,"  said 
Jenny  wistfully.  "You  see,  Elaine  has  been  very  good  to 
me.  When  she  found  me,  and  gave  me  this  chance  to  travel 
with  her,  I  was  rather  down  and  out " 

So,  I  thought,  she  has  got  some  pull  over  you,  too;  and 
you  have  to  do  as  she  tells  you.  It  didn't  make  me  feel  any 
the  friendlier  to  Elaine  Corbyn. 

"You  had  known  her  before,  I  suppose?"  I  said;  "old 
friends?" 

"No,  not  very.  I  had  known  her  before.  But  now,  our 
positions  are  different,  rather.  You  see  I — we " 

"That  doesn't  matter,  does  it?"  I  said.  She  was  obviously 
wanting  to  make  it  clear  that  she  was  dependent  on  Elaine — 
supposing  me  to  be  so  dense  that  I  didn't  know  it.  It  was 
a  subject  I  was  anxious  to  avoid. 

"It  matters  this  much  anyway;  that  though  it  must  all 
seem  very  strange  to  you — ^what  happened  on  our  journey 
down  here,  and  after — ^you  mustn't  ask  me  any  questions 
about  Elaine." 

"I  wasn't  going  to,"  said  I.  "Miss  Corbyn *s  affairs  are 
Miss  Corbyn 's  concern.  Tell  me  about  yourself." 

She  didn't  seem  to  mind  that,  and  was  soon  in  full  swing. 
Her  people  were  small  farmers  in  Michigan,  her  parents 


INSPECTORBEGBIE  65 

died  when  she  was  a  child,  later  she  had  a  little  money  and 
got  a  business  training  in  Princetown.  She  drifted  to  another 
little  burg,  where  she  held  down  a  typist's  job,  but  that 
dried  up  and  she  was  presently  in  difficulties  and  lost  her 
savings. 

I  listened  to  her  entranced,  not  so  much  by  what  she  told 
me  for  it  was  a  simple  record  of  back  country  and  small- 
town life,  as  experienced  by  a  girl  thrown  on  her  own 
resources,  but  for  the  pleasure  of  sitting  next  her  and  hearing 
her  talk.  I  realised  that  I  wasn't  really  learning  much  about 
her,  I  only  knew  I  didn't  want  any  interruptions;  she  seemed 
to  like  telling  me,  and  I  think  we  had  forgotten  our  surround- 
ings and  ever)rthing  else  including  the  breakfast,  when  I 
looked  up  and  saw  Elaine  Corbyn  in  her  fur  motoring  cloak 
and  hat,  standing  in  the  open  window  watching  us.  I  won- 
dered how  long  she  had  been  there. 

She  stared  at  us  with  a  cynically  humorous  little  smile, 
and  I  thought  I  saw  a  spark  of  resentment  in  her  eyes.  She 
came  forward;  Jenny,  flushing  a  little,  rose  and  went  out 
meekly. 

"Don't  go  unless  you've  finished,  dear,"  said  Elaine 
coolly.  Jenny  said  nothing.  The  door  closed  behind  her. 
Elaine  taking  no  notice  of  the  chair  pulled  out  for  her, 
went  to  the  sideboard  and  helped  herself  from  one  of 
the  dishes. 

"I'm  hungry,"  she  said;  "there's  a  kick  in  the  early  morning 
air  here.  Nobody  waited  for  me  I  hope  ?  What  sort  of  a  night 
did  you  have,  Mr.  Rolfe?" 

"A  perfectly  poisonous  night!"  I  said  ill-temperedly. 

"Why?"  she  asked  quickly,  looking  round  at  me.  "Did 
anything  happen?" 

"A  series  of  nightmares,  that's  all." 

"No  wonder,"  she  said.  "Sit  down  and  smoke — ^you'll 
feel  better.  I  don't  mind  tobacco,  even  at  meals.  Put  on  that 


66  BLOODMONEY 

old  pipe  I  can  see  sticking  out  of  your  vest  pocket,  and  be 
good." 

She  attacked  her  breakfast  in  a  healthy,  businesslike  way, 
and  I  found  myself  filling  the  old  pipe  and  lighting  it,  in 
the  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  in  spite  of  an  inclination  to  abstain 
all  the  more  because  she  told  me  to  do  it.  But  I  did  want  a 
smoke  pretty  badly,  and  I  felt  better. 

"Well,"  said  Elaine,  "I  suppose  you're  wondering "  * 

"Only  how  you  managed  to  raise  a  car  here  at  seven  in 
the  morning,  if  you've  never  been  in  the  place  before." 

"Surely  that's  simple,"  she  said.  "I've  got  a  map,  Stanways 
Park  is  marked  on  it — Wheatbridge  is  the  nearest  market 
town,  I  looked  up  a  garage  there  in  your  'phone-book  and 
rang  them  up  to  send  an  auto  round  as  soon  as  I  could  wake 
the  exchange.  By  the  way  I've  a  car  of  my  own  at  the  door 
now.  I  suppose  you've  plenty  of  room  for  it?" 

"A  car  of  your  own.  Before  breakfast?" 

"A  second-hand  Essex,  I  did  a  deal  for  it  with  a  Mr. 
Brookfields,  and  brought  it  away;  it  will  do  till  I  get  some- 
thing better.  One  must  have  an  auto;  I've  no  use  for  hired 
cars  and  hired  drivers." 

What  on  earth  could  she  have  been  after,  that  she  must 
slip  away  like  that  in  a  car  of  her  own,  hours  before  most 
people  were  out  of  their  beds.  She  couldn't,  I  thought,  have 
been  mad  enough  to  go  anywhere  near  the  chalk-pit  on  the 
Cranwell  road.  She  wouldn't  be  able  to  find  the  place,  any- 
way. It  was  useless  to  pretend  I  was  not  intensely  intrigued 
and  interested,  and  rather  anxious.  But  not  a  word  of  explana- 
tion did  the  girl  offer,  and  since  she  had  started  this  game  of 
secrecy  which  seemed  to  me  rather  childish — though  any 
one  less  childish  than  Elaine  I  have  never  met — I  wouldn't 
ask  her  for  any.  .  .  . 

She  finished  her  breakfast,  came  round  to  the  fireplace, 
and  placed  herself  in  a  chair  next  me. 


INSPECTORBEGBIE  67 

"You're  very  silent,"  she  said. 

"I  thought  silence  was  what  you  wanted." 

She  nodded,  and  looked  at  me  rather  oddly. 

"It's  been  real  good  of  you  to  do  what  I  asked.  It's  a  lot 
to  ask  anyone,  there  are  few  people  who  would  have  agreed  to 
it.  I'm  fortunate,  and  believe  me,  I'm  grateful.  You  feel  now 
that  I  ought  to  tell  you  more,  but  I  know  it's  safer  for  you — 
and  for  me  too — if  I  don't.  I'm  too  uncertain  yet,  what's 
going  to  happen.  Will  you  be  content  still,  to  wait  a  little?" 

"That's  all  right.  I'm  not  saying  I  don't  want  to  know,  but 
tell  me  or  not,  when  you  please." 

She  paused  a  few  moments  and  then  said  : 

"That  being  so,  it's  not  fair  for  me  to  ask  you  questions, 
is  it?  If  there  were  anything  you  could  tell  me — well,  I  won't 
complain." 

I  had  been  thinking  that  out.  Most  people  have  their  own 
secrets,  which  they  couldn't  endure  being  as  much  as 
breathed  to  anyone  else.  But  I  had  one  thing  in  my  possession 
that  she  ought  to  know  about,  if  there  were  any  danger 
attaching  to  it.  The  Euston  letter  was  in  my  pocket,  there  was 
nothing  in  it  that  I  minded  her  seeing,  and  I  had  no  right  to 
keep  it  to  myself,  in  the  circumstances. 

"Oh,  never  mind  about  fairness,"  I  said,  "I  got  this  last 
night,  it  should  interest  you.  If  you  can  explain  it  it's  more 
than  I  can." 

I  gave  her  the  pencilled  note.  "  Unless  you're  a  fool, 
you'll  keep  out  of  matters  you  don't  understand;  if  you  set 
any  value  on  your  life  leave  Elaine  Corbyn  alone."  I  told  her 
how  I  came  by  it,  and  watched  her  face  while  she  read  it;  it 
certainly  seemed  to  take  her  aback.  She  went  through  it 
twice,  and  examined  it  very  carefully. 

"You  got  this  before  you  met  me?"  she  said,  her  forehead 
knitting.  "Can  you  see  what  it  means — apart  from  a  melo- 
dramatic sort  of  threat?" 


68  BLOOD    MONEY 

"As  far  as  I  can  see  through  it,  the  writer's  idea  is — to  put 
it  quite  frankly — that  Stanways  is  a  house  where  a  woman 
with  a  good  deal  of  money  might  find  herself  getting  rid  of 
some  of  it — as  you've  discovered  for  yourself,"  said  I. 
"We're  known  to  be  pretty  hard  up,  and  he  was  warning  us 
off.  Or  else  he  credits  me  with  some  special  knowledge  about 
you,  of  which  I'm  really  completely  ignorant,  and  he  wants 
to  hint  to  me  that  I'm  to  keep  off  the  grass,  as  you  have  a 
protector  in  the  background,"  I  concluded,  still  watching 
her. 

"Have  I?  That's  news  to  me,"  she  said  dryly.  "I  don't 
think  you've  guessed  the  answer.  Is  this  stuff  meant  to  be  a 
threat  against  me — or  you?" 

"Threats  never  worry  me.  Miss  Corbyn,  that  note  isn't 
signed — but  can't  you  tell  who  wrote  it?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  know  .  .  .  this  letter  beats  me.  But — I  might  find 
out,"  she  added  with  a  vindictive  little  gleam  in  her  eyes, 
"and  if  I  do,  things  will  get  lively.  You  and  I  could  combine, 
Mr.  Rolfe." 

"Delighted,"  I  said.  "Then  that  note  doesn't  help  you 
much?" 

"Well,  at  present  it's  more  puzzling  than  ever,  but  I 
believe  I'll  soon  see  my  way  through  it."  She  thought  for  a 
moment.  "There's  nothing  else,  that  you  think  I  ought  to 
know?" 

There  was  one  other  item.  There  was  Linke.  But  there  I 
was  up  against  a  deadlock.  There  are  limits  to  the  humiliation 
one  can  stand.  ...  I  was  wholly  unable  to  tell  her  about  the 
man,  the  scheme  he  had  overheard  between  my  father  and 
myself,  and  what  came  of  it.  I  would  rather  have  been  shot 
than  have  Elaine  know  that.  Besides,  Linke  was  my  affair;  I 
meant  to  deal  with  him  myself. 

"No.  Nothing  more,"  I  said. 


INSPECTORBEGBIE  69 

"Ah  well  .  .  .  thank  you  for  showing  me  this,  anyway. 
Would  you  mind  very  much  if  I  keep  it?" 

"You're  welcome  to  it,"  I  said,  and  left  her  staring  at  that 
confounded  scribbled  message  as  if  it  were  something  rare 
and  precious.  I  was  not  anxious  for  any  more  questions  from 
Elaine,  I  wanted  to  get  away  from  her.  As  I  reached  the  door, 
it  was  opened  by  the  parlourmaid. 

"Oh — I  beg  pardon,  sir.  There's  a  police  inspector  in  the 
library.  He  asked  if  he  might  see  you  at  once." 

"Who— what?"  I  said. 

"Inspector  Begbie,  sir,  from  Wheatbridge." 

I  closed  the  door  and  went  across  to  the  library,  feeling 
just  that  tingle  of  apprehension  that  I  suppose  a  man  of  my 
type  does  experience  when  unexpectedly  visited  by  the  police. 

I  knew  Begbie,  who  had  been  to  Stanways  before.  It 
might  be  the  matter  of  a  dog  licence,  or  tickets  for  the  police 
orphanage;  if  that  were  it,  I  felt  inclined  to  subscribe  gener- 
ously. But  if  not,  what  had  I  got  to  face?  Could  they  be  on  to 
that  affair  of  the  chalk-pit  already? 

Inspector  Begbie  was  standing  in  a  military  attitude  by 
the  library  table,  on  which  lay  his  peaked  cap  with  his 
gloves  neatly  disposed  inside;  his  hair  was  brilliantly  oiled. 
He  was  a  large,  heavy  man  with  a  chin  like  a  boot,  and  he  was 
looking  very  serious;  but  Begbie  always  looked  serious. 
His  manner  was  a  blend  of  respectfulness  and  authority;  he 
couldn't  help  being  impressed  by  Stanways  House.  The  last 
Lord  Trent,  our  predecessor,  had  been  a  Justice  and  Deputy- 
Lieutenant  of  Hertfordshire.  .  .  .  Dad  hasn't  been  offered 
either  of  these  honours. 

"'Morning,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  wanted  to  see  Lord  Trent  but 
they  tell  me  he  is  out;  I  hope  you  can  answer  me  some 
questions,  for  I  mustn't  lose  time.  Matter's  urgent  and  grave." 

"Sit  down.  Inspector,"  I  said,  taking  a  chair,  "what's  the 
trouble?" 


7©  BLOODMONEY 

"You  have  a  man-servant  here,  sir — name  Peter  Linke,  I 
believe?" 

So  it  was  Linke.  I  would  far  rather  it  had  been  the  wreck 
on  the  Cranwell  road  which  was  what  I  was  expecting  .  .  . 
though  even  that  would  have  been  sufficiently  awkward. 
Linke  had  enough  on  me,  but  he  surely  couldn't  go  to  the 
police  with  it?  Unaware  what  was  coming  I  found  myself 
instantly  on  the  defensive,  and  trying  not  to  show  it. 

"We  had,"  said  I,  "what  about  him?" 

"That's  what  I  wish  to  find  out,  sir,"  said  Begbie.  "All  I 
know  for  certain  about  him  at  present  is  that  he  is  dead. 
I  am  hoping  you  can  put  me  in  the  way  of  further  infor- 
mation." 

"Dead!"  I  said,  staring  at  him  blankly. 

"Peter  Linke 's  body  was  found  by  a  woman,  just  inside 
Black  Spinney  on  the  borders  of  the  park,  at  eight  this 
morning.  Bullet  wound  through  his  head." 


XIII 
CROSS  FIRE 

A  BULLET  through  my  own  head  would  hardly  have  been 
more  of  a  shock  than  this  piece  of  news,  sprung  on  me  so 
abruptly.  Then  came  a  rush  of  mingled  thoughts  and 
emotions  all  crowding  together  ...  I  think  they  were  mainly 
relief,  for  in  a  crisis  one  is  apt  to  put  oneself  first,  and 
Linke's  mouth  was  closed.  Inspector  Begbie  sat  squarely  in 
front  like  an  image,  watching  me.  I  hoped  he  was  not  a 
mind-reader — he  didn't  look  like  one. 

"Linke  dead?"  I  said  dazedly. 

"Murder.  Not  much  doubt  about  that,  sir,"  said  Begbie. 
"The  man  had  been  shot  through  the  skull,  evidently  at 
close  quarters." 

"Who  on  earth  could  have  done  such  a  thing?  Is  there 
anything  to  show  who  killed  him?  Do  you  suspect  anybody?" 

Begbie  hesitated  a  moment. 

"At  present  there's  not  a  lot  to  go  on,  sir.  The  ground's 
hard  and  dry  down  there  in  the  Spinney — no  tracks.  But  I 
want  to  begin  with  Linke  himself — he  was  in  service  at 
Stanways.  What  can  you  tell  me  about  him?" 

"Very  little,  except  that  he  has  been  footman  here  for  the 
past  two  weeks,  and  was  discharged  last  night.  He  left  the 
house,  and  my  father's  service,  before  8  p.m." 

"Discharged?  And  left  before  eight?  Rather  sudden.  But 
that  would  account  for  his  not  having  been  missed,"  said 
Begbie,  writing  deliberately  in  his  note-book.  "The  body  was 
discovered  by  accident;  he  might  not  have  been  found,  in  a 
place  like  that,  for  a  week  or  more.  You  saw  him  last  night , 
sir?  When?" 

They  could  not  possibly  suspect  me.  I  was  not  worrying 
about  that.  Yet  the  situation  was  deadly,  and  whoever  had 


72  BLOODMONEY 

killed  this  blackmailer  I  was  entitled  to  keep  myself  out  of 
it  so  far  as  I  could,  and  still  more  the  people  with  whom  I 
was  concerned. 

"At  about  half-past  seven,"  I  said,  "just  before  I  left  by 
car  for  London.  And  he  must  have  quitted  the  house  soon 
afterwards.  Is  there  any  way  of  telling  when  this  thing 
happened?" 

Again  Begbie  paused. 

"Within  limits  we  can  fix  that  roughly."  he  said,  "Doctor 
Brent  saw  him  an  hour  ago;  he  had  then  been  dead  not  less 
than  ten  hours." 

"So  he  must  have  been  killed  between  seven-thirty,  when 
I  saw  him  here,  and  eleven  o'clock." 

"Yes,  sir.  When  did  you  get  back  from  London?" 

"About  half-past  ten.  He  was  certainly  not  here  then." 

"What  road  did  you  use,  coming  home?" 

"The  Great  North  Road,  and  in  by  the  lane  and  our  south 
lodge  gates." 

"Then  you  must  have  passed  within  a  hundred  and  fifty 
yards  of  Black  Spinney,  sir." 

"Why— yes,"  I  said.  "Evidently.  Yes,  that's  so." 

"At  a  little  before  ten-thirty.  If  you'd  only  known,  sir!" 
said  Begbie  reflectively.  "Didn't  see  or  hear  anything  unusual, 
of  course?  Didn't  stop?" 

"Why,  no — I  drove  straight  through." 

"Drove  straight  through,"  said  Begbie,  making  a  note. 
"Anybody  with  you?" 

"Yes,  two  ladies  that  I  brought  down  from  Euston.  You 
don't,  I  suppose,  want  to  see  them?  Have  you  any  reason  to 
think  this  crime  had  already  been  committed  by  the  time  I 
came  past  Black  Spinney?  Because  if  so " 

"I'm  saying  nothing  definite  yet,  sir.  But  if  you'll  just 
answer  my  questions  we'll  get  along  quicker.  You  tell  me 
Linke  was  discharged  from  Lord  Trent's  service  last  night; 


CROSSFIRE  73 

that  means  summarily,  I  take  it."  He  turned  over  a  leaf  of 
his  note-book.  "What  was  he  discharged  for?" 

It  is  no  use  lying  to  the  police,  however  stolid  and  innocent 
the  individual  police  official  may  look.  If  you  make  one 
statement  that  they  can  later  discover  to  be  false  the  whole 
fabric  collapses  and  you  are  up  against  it.  To  refuse  to  reply, 
or  refer  them  to  somebody  else,  is  equally  sure  to  rouse 
suspicion. 

"He  was  fired  for  attending  to  keyholes  instead  of  to  his 
work — listening  to  conversation,"  I  said  briefly.  "Some 
servants  do  these  things.  I  caught  him  at  it." 

"I  see.  Conversation  between  yourself  and  Lord  Trent, 
sir?" 

"Yes." 

"Certainly  one  wouldn't  want  to  keep  a  man  in  one's 
employ  after  that,  Mr.  Rolfe,"  said  the  Inspector  sympa- 
thetically; "you  say  you  caught  him  at  it.  Where  did  this 
happen?" 

"In  this  room.  I  thought  I  heard  somebody  at  the  door 
yonder.  So — I  threw  it  open  suddenly " 

The  door  opened  as  I  spoke.  Elaine  stopped  short  in  the 
doorway,  with  Jenny  Craddock  close  beside  her.  The  inter- 
ruption distracted  me  and  I  started  up. 

"Not  in  here  please — private,"  I  said  hurriedly.  The  two 
girls  withdrew,  Jenny  wide-eyed  and  rather  startled.  I  shut 
the  door  behind  them  and  returned  to  my  chair. 

I  had  seen  Begbie  glance  with  sudden  interest  at  Elaine 
and  Jenny,  but  he  stuck  to  his  seat  with  the  same  stolid 
serenity  and  continued  his  infernal  questioning  as  if  there  had 
been  no  interruption. 

"You  threw  the  door  open,  Mr.  Rolfe — and  you  found 
Linke  there?" 

"I  found  him  in  the  lobby,  close  by.  He  was  a  quick 
mover." 


74  BLOODMONEY 

"Then  you  didn't  actually  catch  him  listening.  Did  you 
accuse  him  of  it?" 

"Yes,  and  he  denied  it.  His  denial  was  not  accepted,  and 
he  was  fired — for  misbehaviour;  servants  who  listen  are  not 
reliable." 

"Quite  so.  This  is  most  helpful,  Mr.  Rolfe,  it's  just  what 
I  want  to  know.  Evidently  a  dubious  character — spying  about 
like  that.  The  conversation  between  you  and  his  lordship  was 
none  of  Linke's  business,  of  course." 

"None  whatever." 

"In  fact,  nothing  private.  It  will  be  still  more  helpful — 
to  the  police — if  you  will  tell  me  what  it  was  about." 

The  Inspector  waited,  his  eyes  on  my  face. 

"Oh,  just  the  arrangements  about  a  couple  of  guests  we 
were  expecting,"  said  I. 

"I  see — no  business  of  Linke's.  Was  it  the  two  ladies  1 
saw  just  now?" 

I  was  getting  rattled.  Between  wrath  and  nervousness — 
though  I  don't  usually  suffer  from  nerves — it  was  all  I  could 
do  to  keep  my  temper.  I  was  having  the  worst  five  minutes 
I  ever  spent. 

"Yes,"  I  retorted.  "They  have  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  Linke." 

"So far  as  you  know?  Of  course,  Mr.  Rolfe, these  questions 
are  rather  troublesome,"  said  Begbie  soothingly,  "but  you 
see  I  can't  put  them  to  Linke,  and  I've  got  to  get  down  to 
bed-rock  for  the  facts,  they  are  bound  to  come  out  sooner 
or  later,  and  though  there  may  be  nothing  in  this,  you  might 
be  able  to  help  me  immensely." 

"Certainly,  if  you'll  leave  my  father's  guests  alone.  They 
only  landed  from  New  York  last  night." 

"There'll  be  no  difficulty  about  that,  sir.  From  New 
York?    And  their  names  are ?" 

"Miss  Elaine  Corbyn,  and  Miss  Craddock." 


CROSSFIRE  75 

Begbie  made  another  note  deliberately. 

"It's  already  quite  clear, sir,  that  Lord  Trent  and  you  were 
discussing  these  ladies  whom  you  were  expecting,  which  of 
course  was  very  natural — when  Linke  listened  at  that  door 
and  was  interrupted  and  dismissed.  This  is  very  interesting — 
in  fact  it  may  be  vital.  It  happened  just  before  he  left 
Stanways — for  the  last  time.  Will  you  tell  me  just  zvhat 
it  was  that  was  said  concerning  Miss  Elaine  Corbyn,  which 
Linke  overheard?" 

"I  can't  remember  what  was  said." 

Begbie  leaned  forward,  fixing  me  with  that  penetrating, 
gloomy  eye  of  his. 

"Think  again,  sir,  and  you'll  remember,"  he  said  quietly. 

I  was  up  against  it.  I  would  sooner  he  had  handcuffed  me 
and  charged  me  with  the  murder,  than  have  given  him  the 
answer — in  fact  I  would  sooner  have  throttled  him  where  he 
sat.  And  yet  that  answer  he  had  got  to  have,  one  way  or  an- 
other; he  had  me  cornered.  Sick  and  savage,  I  reflected 
rapidly  how  to  get  out  of  it;  and  Begbie  waited.  He  was 
patient;  he  had  a  dead  man  to  account  for. 

Before  I  could  speak  the  door  opened  again  and  my  father 
came  in.  I  was  never  quite  so  glad  to  see  anybody  in  my 
life.  He  looked  delightfully  cool  and  unruffled,  in  light 
tweeds  with  a  carnation  in  his  button-hole. 

"Good  morning,  Begbie,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "I  hear  you 
want  to  see  me." 

"About  your  servant,  Peter  Linke,  whose  body  was  found 
by  one  of  the  farm  hands  at  Black  Spinney  this  morning,  my 
lord,"  said  the  Inspector.  My  father  stared  at  him  in  mild 
astonishment.  Begbie  repeated  the  facts  in  a  few  brief  sen- 
tences, much  as  he  had  given  them  to  rae.  Dad  sat  down  with 
a  sigh. 

"A  sinister  business  to  hear  about  on  a  bright  autumn 
morning  like  this,"  he  said  regretfully.    "The  first  murder 


76  BLOODMONEY 

that  has  occurred  at  Stanways  for  a  century — it  is  a 
murder,  I  suppose?  Do  you  know  how  the  unfortunate 
fellow  came  by  his  death?" 

"That  is  the  point  I'm  investigating." 

"I  don't  know  that  it  surprises  me  as  much  as  it  otherwise 
would  have:  from  what  I  saw  of  him  I  should  say  that  Linke 
was  a  man  who  might  very  well  have  had  enemies,"  said 
my  father  thoughtfully.  "Is  he  known  to  the  pohce?" 

"It's  rather  early  to  say  that.  I  know  little  more  about  him 
at  present  than  what  your  son  has  told  me,"  replied  Begbie 
guardedly,  and  he  repeated  the  answers  I  had  given  him. 
"Now,  my  lord,  will  you  tell  me  what  it  was  that  Linke  took 
the  trouble  to  try  and  overhear,  between  yourself  and  Mr. 
Rolfe,  just  before  he  left  your  service  and  met  his  death  at 
the  hands  of  someone  whom  it  is  my  business  to  trace.  I 
recognise  that  it  should  be  a  private  matter,  but — but  I  have 
got  to  get  at  the  facts." 

"I  will  give  you  all  the  help  I  can,"  said  my  father;  "when 
Linke  took  such  an  interest  in  the  keyhole  yonder,  he  heard 
me  urging  my  son  not  to  miss  the  boat  train  at  Euston,  as 
our  guest  Miss  Corbyn  had  to  be  brought  to  Stanways.  At 
the  same  time  I  mentioned  to  my  son  that  Miss  Corbyn  is  a 
wealthy  lady  who  would  probably  be  bringing  things  of 
considerable  value  with  her,  and  that  he  should  be  on  the 
spot  when  she  arrived — such  precautions  are  necessary  in 
the  case  of  arrivals  from  abroad." 

"Was  nothing  more  said  than  that.  Lord  Trent?" 

"Nothing  whatever.  At  that  moment  my  son — who 
always  has  his  wits  about  him — heard  a  slight  noise  at  the 
door  and  discovered  the  footman  indulging  in  espionage 
work  which  was  not  part  of  his  duty.  He  was  called  in  here, 
dismissed  summarily  and  was  out  of  the  house  twenty 
minutes  later." 

"Did  you  see  Linke  again,  after  he  left  this  room?" 


CROSSFIRE  77 

"No.  When  he  left  the  house,  my  son  was  already  away  in 
the  car.  We  have  no  other  conveyance.  I  heard  afterwards 
from  my  housekeeper  that  Linke  went  on  foot,  after  he  had 
gone  to  her  for  his  wages.  Neither  of  us  saw  any  more  of  him." 

I  felt  a  slight  tightening  of  the  throat,  as  I  heard  my  father 
make  these  two  statements  with  easy  deliberation.  I  didn't 
look  at  him.  We  were  committed  to  the  course  he  had  chosen. 

By  whose  hand  had  Linke  died?  That  question  it  was 
Begbie's  task  to  solve — not  mine.  But  when  a  man  starts 
lying,  where  is  it  going  to  end?  My  only  rule  is  to  avoid  lying 
for  my  own  profit,  which  is  mean  work  anyhow.  But  I  don't 
see  that  one  has  the  right  to  give  other  people  away.  There 
are  times  when  it's  impossible. 

"It  seems.  Lord  Trent,  that  your  housekeeper  saw  and 
spoke  to  Linke  after  you  had  parted  with  him.  That  traces 
him  a  little  further — I  should  like  to  have  a  word  viith  her.** 

"That's  torn  it,"  thought  L 


XIV 
MRS.  JESSOP 

Dad  pressed  the  bell  twice.  After  a  few  moments  Mrs. 
Jessop  sailed  in,  the  image  of  respectability  in  black  silk 
and  beads,  the  very  model  of  a  peer's  housekeeper.  She 
bowed  to  my  father  with  that  reverent  little  drop  of  the  knee 
that  I  always  admired,  and  looked  at  the  Inspector  as  though 
he  were  an  accidental  spider  that  had  strayed  into  the  library 
and  should  be  removed  by  the  housemaid's  broom.  I 
wondered  if  she  had  heard  of  Linke's  death;  by  her  expression 
one  would  have  thought  not,  but  I  felt  convinced  that  she  did 
know  of  it.  The  Inspector  did  not  even  mention  it.  In  answer 
to  his  question  she  said: 

"Linke  came  to  me  at  seven  o'clock  last  night  and  asked 
me  for  his  wages,  as  he  was  discharged.  I  gave  him  his  pay 
for  this  week  and  next.  No,  I  didn't  ask  him  for  any  reasons; 
it  was  his  lordship's  order  and  I  was  pleased  enough  he  was 
leaving  us.  He  said  nothing  more  to  me  except  to  ask  me  how 
was  he  to  get  to  the  station.  I  replied  that  of  course  the  car 
couldn't  take  him,  as  I  knew  it  was  wanted;  I  heard  the  car 
going  away  at  half-past  seven.  Nobody  drives  it  but  Mr. 
Rolfe  and  his  lordship.  Linke  had  only  one  big  bag  that  he 
put  on  the  carrier's  lorry  that  called  before  seven-thirty. 
He  didn't  go  on  the  lorry  himself,  he  went  away  on  foot.  I 
saw  him  from  the  window  of  my  room,  going  down  the  north 
road  through  the  park." 

"Where  is  your  window?" 

"On  the  far  side  of  the  house,  sir.  No,  not  anywhere  near 
the  garage;  that's  on  the  south  side." 

Begbie  made  a  note  of  her  statement.  But  for  my  part  I 
had  listened  to  her  with  growing  amazement.  Linke  had  made 
his  exit  from  Stanways  before  I  did,  and  not  after. 


MRS.JESSOP  79 

"That  was  the  last  you  saw  of  him?  Anybody  else  see  or 
speak  with  him  before  he  went?"  asked  Begbie. 

"Not  to  my  knowledge,  sir.  The  rest  of  the  staff  were  in  the 
servants'  hall.  If  they  did  they'd  have  mentioned  it." 

"You  say  you  were  glad  to  be  rid  of  him.  Why?" 

"I  didn't  like  the  man.  He  knew  his  work,  but  I  can  tell 
you  nothing  about  him;  he  never  talked  of  himself.  He  had 
only  been  here  a  fortnight." 

"Did  you  ever  notice  anything  suspicious  about  him?" 

"Only  that  he  preferred  Hstening  to  talking.  Nothing 
definite,  or  I  should  have  informed  his  lordship  at  once.  Has 
he  done  something  wrong?" 

"He  has  been  found  shot,  just  outside  the  park,  it  seems, 
Mrs.  Jessop,"  said  my  father,  much  as  if  he  were  announcing 
Linke's  promotion  to  a  better  job,  "and  naturally  one  wants 
to  ascertain  how  and  why  it  happened;  I  gather  the  poUce 
have  no  doubt  that  he  was  murdered." 

"Indeed,  my  lord,  I  always  felt  that  he  was  not  respectable." 

"That  is  all  you  can  tell  us,  madam?"  said  Begbie  after  a 
pause.  "Then  I  will  not  trouble  you  any  further." 

"Then  I  can  go,  my  lord?"  she  said,  turning  to  my  father 
for  permission;  he  nodded  kindly,  and  Mrs.  Jessop  went 
serenely  out. 

"Rather  a  cool  hand,  your  housekeeper,  Lord  Trent,"  said 
Begbie  dryly. 

"I  dislike  emotional  people  about  me,"  said  Dad.  "She  is 
an  excellent  servant.  The  first  quality  in  an  English  house- 
keeper should  be  imperturbable  calm.  Now,  what  more  can  I 
tell  you?" 

"Let  us  go  back.  Lord  Trent,  to  what  Linke  evidently 
overheard  before  he  left  this  house  and  met  his  death.  In 
what  way  would  that  be  likely  to  affect  him  and  his  move- 
ments, do  you  think?" 

"I  don't  pretend  to  be  able  to  probe  into  Linke's  mind," 


8o  BLOOD    MONEY 

said  Dad,  "but  it  seems  likely  to  occur  to  a  scoundrel  like 
Linke,  hearing  Miss  Corbyn  was  a  lady  of  wealth,  that  he 
would  stand  a  chance  of  getting  some  of  it  into  his  own 
hands.  What  other  explanation  is  there?" 

"You  say  he  heard  that  Miss  Corbyn  was  bringing  articles 
of  considerable  value  with  her,"  said  Begbie,  and  he  turned 
to  me.  "Was  that  so,  Mr.  Rolfe,  to  your  knowledge?" 

"There  was  a  jewel-case  she  brought  with  her  in  the  car," 
I  said,  "it's  in  the  house  now." 

"Now,  now,  Ken,"  interposed  my  father.  "Miss  Corbyn 
told  me  a  few  minutes  since,  that  she  went  out  this  morning 
and  deposited  the  case  with  Barclay's  Bank  at  Wheatbridge 
when  they  opened  at  nine.  I  was  relieved  to  hear  it;  burglaries 
at  country  houses  are  so  common,  as  I  told  her  last  night." 

"Did  you  mention  Linke  to  her?" 

"No,  Linke  was  such  an  unpleasant  subject  to  mention  to 
a  guest;  I  imagined  and  hoped  that  we  had  done  with  him,  in 
fact  I  hardly  gave  him  any  further  thought  at  the  time.  But  I 
did  mention  that  Stanways  is  rather  a  lonely  place  for  anyone 
possessing  valuables:  we  have  no  safe  here.  She  evidently 
took  it  seriously.  Very  wise  of  her.  Doesn't  all  this  suggest 
what  Linke's  motive  was,  Inspector?" 

Begbie  drummed  with  his  pencil  on  the  table. 

"It  does,  Lord  Trent.  It  appears  to  fit  it  very  well.  But 
there's  one  thing  overlooked.  It  doesn't  by  any  means 
explain  the  motive  of  the  man  who  shot  him,  and  that's  the 
man  I'm  after.  Allow  that  Linke  knew  Miss  Corbyn  was 
wealthy,  carried  valuables,  and  might  afford  an  opportunity 
for  loot.  Undesirable  knowledge  for  him  to  have.  It's  a 
doubtful  reason  though,  why  anybody  should  risk  his  neck — 
or  at  best  fifteen  years  in  prison — by  killing  Linke.  Why 
should  he?  It's  the  kind  of  thing  that  isn't  done  in  this 
country.  This  is  no  manslaughter  case  either;  the  man  was 
deliberately  shot  through  the  back  of  the  head.  There's  more 


MRS.JESSOP  8l 

to  this  than  the  matter  of  Miss  Corbyn's  jewel-case;  there's 
a  mystery  here  we  haven't  solved  yet,  and  one  point  stands 
out.  Assuming  that  Linke  was  a  crook — ^he  was  killed  by  a 
bigger  crook  than  Linke." 

"Ah,  there  you  are  wading  too  deep  for  me,"  said  my 
father,  "the  politics  of  the  underworld  are  more  in  your  line 
than  in  mine.  I  see  you've  arrived  at  a  conclusion." 

"Yes.  That  Linke  was  here  for  a  purpose,  that  he  l.new 
before  he  took  service  with  you  that  Miss  Corbyn  would  be 
coming  here,  and  he  wished  to  get  further  information.  It  is 
very  unlikely  that  he  was  listening  on  the  off-chance,  and 
heard  of  your  two  guests  by  pure  coincidence." 

"I  am  at  a  loss  to  guess  how  he  could  have  known  it,"  said 
Dad.  "His  sudden  ending,  then,  and  the  motive  for  it,  is  a 
mystery  which  will  have  to  be  left  to  the  police  to  solve." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  see  Miss  Corbyn,"  said  the  Inspector, 
remaining  seated.  "And  her  friend.  It  is  just  possible  they 
know  more  about  Linke  than  your  lordship  does." 

"I  shall  certainly  be  more  careful  about  the  servants  I 
engage  in  future,"  said  my  father  regretfully.  "This  sort  of 
thing  is  very  trying,  and  I  hate  upsetting  my  guests.  However 
if  you  insist " 

He  went  out,  and  returned  in  a  few  minutes  with  Elaine 
and  Jenny,  whom  he  introduced  to  the  Inspector  with  an 
apologetic  air. 

"Do  either  of  you  ladies  know,  or  have  you  heard,  of  a  man 
named  Peter  Linke"  asked  Begbie. 

"Never  heard  the  name.  We  only  landed  from  America 
yesterday,  we  know  nobody  in  this  country,"  said  Elaine. 
Jenny  looked  bewildered,  and  shook  her  head.  The  presence 
of  the  policeman  seemed  to  strike  her  dumb. 

"Apparently  nobody  knows  who  he  is,  nor  where  he  came 
from  last,"  said  the  Inspector  dryly.  "But  he  has  heard  your 
name,  madam,"  he  turned  to  Elaine.  "He  lost  his  job  as 


82  BLOOD    MONEY 

footman  last  night  for  listening  at  that  keyhole  to  a  conver- 
sation in  which  you  and  your  movements  were  discussed. 
What  he  heard,  so  Lord  Trent  tells  me,  was  that  Mr.  Rolfe 
was  to  meet  your  train  at  Euston  and  bring  you  here.  Lord 
Trent  discharged  him  on  the  spot.  The  next  thing  is  that 
he  was  found  dead  this  morning,  in  a  wood  a  mile  from  here. 
He  was  shot  through  the  head." 

I  saw  Elaine's  eyes  narrow  slightly.  She  heard  this 
staggering  news  with  alert  attention,  but  she  said  nothing. 
Jenny  was  very  white,  and  looked  so  aghast  that  I  mentally 
cursed  the  Inspector,  my  father,  the  dead  man,  and  every- 
body concerned,  including  myself. 

'Tm  sorry  to  trouble  you  with  a  business  like  this,  madam," 
continued  Begbie,  "but  I'd  like  you  to  come  down  to  the 
wood  with  me  and  see  if  you  can  identify  this  man.  There's 
nobody  here  seems  to  know  who  he  is  or  where  he  came  from 
last — names  count  for  nothing  anyway." 

"The  sooner  it's  done  the  better,  I  think,"  said  Elaine. 
"I'm  ready." 

"Miss  Craddock  too,  if  she'll  be  so  good,"  said  the 
Inspector,  donning  his  cap  and  picking  up  his  gloves.  I  saw 
Jenny  shrink. 

"Elaine!"  she  said  under  her  breath,  "they  can't  want  me. 
You  see  him." 

"Save  a  lot  of  trouble  if  you  come  now,  miss — won't  take 
five  minutes,"  said  the  Inspector  soothingly.  "You  were 
mentioned,  as  well  as  Miss  Corbyn.  Only  a  matter  of  taking 
a  look  at  him." 

"You  certainly  have  to  come,  Jenny,"  said  Elaine  de- 
cisively, "and  don't  wait  to  get  your  hat.  Interests  of  justice." 

"We'll  all  go,"  said  my  father,  and  the  telephone  on  the 
table  whirred,  making  me  jump  slightly,  for  my  nerves  were 
on  edge.  Dad  calmly  unhooked  the  receiver  and  listened. 

"For  you,  Begbie,"  he  said,  "from  police  station,  Wheat- 


MRS.JESSOP  83 

bridge,"  and  handed  him  the  receiver.  Begbie  caught  at  it 
eagerly.  I  saw  his  brows  knit  with  surprise  and  impatience. 

"Speaking  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  burned?  .  .  .  what  chalk-pit?  .  .  . 
who  is  he?  .  .  .  who's  in  charge?  .  .  .  two  car  tracks?  .  .  .  why 
not?  .  .  ." 

There  was  silence  for  nearly  a  minute  while  he  listened; 
I  had  that  helpless  cut-off  feeling  that  you  have  when  some- 
one else  is  getting  a  message  over  the  wires  that  you  want  to 
hear;  the  little  I  did  hear  galvanised  me. 

"Right.  Advise  headquarters  and  get  down  to  it  yourself, 
sergeant — I'm  full  up.  Join  you  when  I'm  through  here — 
Lord  knows  when  that  will  be."  He  hung  the  receiver  up 
with  a  snap.  "Never  rains  but  it  pours.  Now  ladies,  if  you're 
ready." 

"You  appear  to  be  having  a  busy  day,  Inspector,"  said  my 
father;  "a  fresh  clue,  I  hope?" 

"Fresh  case,"  said  Begbie,  briefly,  "crashed  car  found  on 
a  lonely  road  south  of  here — one  man  dead,  unrecognisable. 
Wreck  burned.  Sounds  a  queer  business — no  details  yet." 
He  opened  the  door  and  waited  for  us,  marshalling  us  out. 

I  looked  at  Elaine.  For  all  the  notice  she  took  of  me,  I 
might  not  have  been  there. 

"Has  it  anything  to  do  with  this  thing  you  are  asking  us 
about?"  she  said  to  Begbie.  "You  still  want  us?" 

"I  want  you  all  the  more,  miss,"  he  said;  "one  thing  at  a 
time.  I  won't  keep  you  long." 

If  ever  there  was  a  time  to  speak  it  was  now.  But  she  let 
it  pass,  quite  coolly.  Not  a  word  came  from  her.  She  linked 
her  arm  sympathetically  in  Jenny's  and  the  two  girls  passed 
out  through  the  hall;  it  seemed  to  me  that  Jenny  wanted 
support.  I  could  have  done  with  some  myself. 

"You  two  gentlemen  had  best  come  too,"  said  Begbie. 

"I'm  certainly  coming,"  I  replied  shortly. 

"And  I,"  said  my  father,  as  if  in  a  quiet  rebuke  to  Begbie 's 


84  BLOODMONEY 

officiousness.  "I  will  at  least  share  my  guests'  discomfort. 
After  all,  the  man  was  my  servant."  He  paused  as  we  reached 
the  Inspector's  little  two-seater  car  standing  at  the  porch, 
and  inspected  it  as  though  it  were  an  ash-bin.  "We  certainly 
can't  crowd  into  this — get  the  Chrysler  out.  Ken." 

Elaine  stopped  me. 

"We  don't  need  your  car.  Mine's  just  round  the  corner  on 
the  terrace  and  will  hold  us  all.  I'll  drive  and  the  Inspector 
can  direct  me.  I  want  to  get  this  over  and  done  with." 

I  had  been  on  the  point  of  telling  Dad  that  the  Chrysler 
had  a  tyre  down  and  couldn't  go;  I  had  no  intention  of  taking 
unnecessary  chances  with  Begbie  and  the  family  car.  But 
Elaine  settled  that.  We  crowded  into  the  shabby  Essex  Sedan 
that  stood  waiting  on  the  terrace;  Elaine  driving  while  Jenny 
and  I  and  Dad  sat  at  the  back,  we  sped  away  through  the 
park. 


XV 

BLACK  SPINNEY 

Jenny  said  nothing,  the  whole  business  was  scafing  her 
dumb,  and  no  wonder.  I  had  a  feeling  that  it  wouldn't  take 
much  to  make  her  jump  out  of  the  car  and  bolt  for  it.  Not 
that  she  could  personally  have  anything  to  fear,  but  to  be 
taken  to  inspect  a  defunct  thief  just  after  breakfast  was 
enough  to  upset  the  nerves  of  any  girl,  particularly  such  a 
retiring  little  creature  as  Jenny.  I  felt  considerably  strung 
up  myself;  there  was  no  telling  what  Begbie's  next  move 
would  be.  That  worried  me  less  than  the  whiteness  of  Jenny's 
face  and  the  way  she  shrank  back  against  the  cushions. 

I  slipped  my  hand  over  hers  and  pressed  it;  she  didn't 
draw  it  away,  and  seemed  even  to  get  a  little  comfort  out  of  it. 

In  front,  Begbie  was  talking  to  Elaine  as  she  drove, 
evidently  questioning  her;  I  heard  the  word  'jewel-case,' 
though  most  of  what  they  said  didn't  reach  me.  I  couldn't 
guess  whether  the  answers  satisfied  him,  but  she  was  as  cool 
and  self-contained  as  ever. 

No  doubt  she  had  taken  the  case  to  the  bank,  since  she  told 
us  so.  But  that  was  no  reason  for  leaving  at  seven  in  the 
morning — as  I  knew  she  had  done;  the  bank  doesn't  open  till 
nine  and  is  only  three  miles  away. 

Anyway  I  didn't  believe  that  the  jewel-case  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  Linke  affair,  plausible  though  it  sounded.  That 
hare  had  been  started  by  my  father,  it  was  a  good  one,  but  it 
was  not  for  me  to  hunt  it. 

As  for  Elaine,  she  had  kept  silence  about  the  chalk-pit 
crash  at  the  very  moment  when,  if  ever,  she  should  have 
spoken .  I  thought  it  a  very  dangerous  game  she  was  playing. 
She  was  not  a  woman  to  make  any  decision  without  a  reason. 
If  she  did  not  speak,  I  couldn't. 


86  BLOODMONEY 

The  journey  through  the  park  was  made  in  a  couple  of 
minutes.  We  turned  out  through  the  south  gates  into  the 
lane.  Half  a  mile  beyond  was  Black  Spinney,  a  little  dark 
plantation  of  firs  and  larches,  set  in  a  triangle  with  its  base 
against  the  lonely  by-road. 

We  found  a  policeman  of  the  Herts.  Constabulary  on  guard 
by  a  gap  in  the  Spinney  fence.  He  saluted  my  father  and 
the  Inspector  as  we  all  got  out  of  the  car,  and  I  saw  another 
policeman  standing  some  little  way  inside  the  wood. 

"This  way,  please,  and  will  you  be  good  enough  to  follow 
close  behind  me,"  said  Begbie,  leading  us  to  another  gap 
farther  up  the  lane,  and  from  there  we  followed  him  in  single 
file  as  he  threaded  his  way  between  the  trees.  It  was  clear 
he  did  not  want  us  to  use  the  path  by  which  the  dead  man 
had  presumably  entered  the  wood,  though  the  ground  looked 
to  me  too  hard  to  show  much  in  the  way  of  footprints,  and 
I'm  not  unused  to  trails,  myself. 

We  reached  the  stationary  police-sergeant  I  had  seen 
from  the  road,  and  my  father  got  another  salute;  the  Trents 
may  have  fallen  a  little  from  their  high  estate,  but  the  head 
of  the  family  still  counts  for  something,  at  any  rate  on  his 
own  ground.  Close  by,  in  a  patch  of  withered  bracken,  lay 
Linke,  as  though  he  had  fallen  asleep. 

He  was  stretched  almost  at  full  length,  the  knees  slightly 
bent,  the  body  partially  on  its  side,  with  one  shoulder  raised, 
the  lower  arm  extended.  The  face  was  not  visible,  for  the 
sergeant  had  laid  his  waterproof  cape  over  the  head  and 
shoulders. 

There  lay  the  man  who  had  attempted  to  blackmail  me, 
thirteen  hours  ago.  It  came  home  to  me,  the  position  I  should 
be  in  if  anyone  knew  that.  Till  now  I  had  only  felt  con- 
cerned lest  anybody  should  know  what  Linke  knew.  The 
fact  that  he  had  held  me  up  for  money  on  the  strength  of 
that  knowledge  was  quite  another  item.  And  though  I  hold 


BLACKSPINNEY  87 

that  crime  to  be  the  vilest  a  man  can  commit,  I  no  longer 
bore  even  Linke  any  malice;  the  account  was  closed. 

Inspector  Begbie  bent  down  and  lifted  the  cape. 

The  dead  man's  face  lay  in  profile,  clear  to  the  view  of  all 
of  us.  The  hair  at  the  back  of  the  head  was  matted  with  a  dark 
stain,  but  not  very  noticeably  except  to  a  close  observer. 

Linke  looked  more  attractive  in  death  than  ever  he  had  in 
life;  he  had  not  been  a  bad-looking  fellow.  Now  that  his  eyes 
were  closed,  the  waxen-white  features  looked  extraordinarily 
quiet  and  peaceful.  I  have  seen  many  dead  men,  but  however 
lightly  and  callously  a  man  may  hold  absent  death,  he  must 
become  changed  in  its  presence. 

Inspector  Begbie  turned  to  Elaine.  She  looked  steadily 
and  gravely  at  the  quiet  face  for  what  seemed  to  me  an  un- 
necessary length  of  time.  Then  she  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said  decisively.  "I  have  never  seen  this  man 
before  in  my  life." 

Jenny  had  held  back,  unable  to  bring  herself  to  face  it. 
But  Begbie  waited,  and  it  was  Elaine  who  went  to  her,  said 
something  to  her  in  an  undertone  and  insisted  on  her  coming 
forward,  guiding  her  gently  by  the  arm.  I  was  inclined  to 
hate  her  for  it;  the  thing  might  be  needful  but  I  couldn't  see 
why.  Jenny  looked,  her  face  nearly  as  white  as  that  of  the 
dead  man;  it  was  as  though  she  could  hardly  bring  herself  to 
look  at  all. 

I  heard  her  catch  her  breath  slightly,  and  saw  her  eyes 
dilate;  a  look  of  doubt,  and  then  of  relief  came  into  them  as 
she  scanned  the  dead  face  with  the  intentness  of  one  who 
wants  to  make  quite  sure  of  something.  Finally  she  drew 
back  with  a  little  shiver,  and  turned  away. 

"No,"  she  said  half  audibly.  "I  don't  know  him — never 
seen  him  before." 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  Begbie.  He  had  noticed  her  hesita- 
tion. Again  she  paused. 


88  BLOODMONEY 

"Quite  sure.  But — he  reminds  me  a  little,  of  a  man  I  have 
seen — somewhere ' ' 

"Who,  and  where?" 

"I  don't  know — somewhere  out  West,  I  think."  She  seemed 
distressed.  "It's  hard  to  recall;  it's  so  long  ago  that  I've  for- 
gotten. There's  a  sort  of  likeness — resemblance.  But  I've 
never  seen  this  man  till  now." 

The  Inspector  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly.  But  for  the 
trying  situation  to  which  he  had  brought  the  girl,  he  would 
probably  have  been  impatient  with  her. 

"If  you're  sure  you  don't  know  the  man  himself,  it  doesn't 
much  matter  who  he's  like,  miss.  W^ell,  ladies,  that's  all. 
Neither  of  you  can  identify  him.  I  thank  you,  and  I'm  sorry 
to  have  troubled  you." 

He  turned  away  from  the  dead  man  and  led  us  back  to  the 
car.  Elaine  and  my  father  followed  behind,  slowly.  I  saw  them 
talking  together,  and  I  guessed  he  would  have  plenty  to  say 
to  her.  It  was  evident  that  Begbie  wanted  to  get  us  away  from 
the  place  as  soon  as  possible. 

"If  you'll  run  me  back  to  the  house  I  can  bring  my  car  out 
here  and  carry  on,"  he  said.  "Finished?  No,  this  business 
isn't  finished;  it's  beginning." 


XVI 
BEGBIE'S  CHALLENGE 

During  the  brief  journey  back,  Begbie  remained  silent. 
I  couldn't  tell  from  his  manner  whether  he  was  disappointed, 
or  on  the  other  hand  particularly  pleased  with  himself. 
Even  my  father  had  nothing  on  Begbie  in  the  matter  of 
concealing  his  thoughts. 

"I  should  like  to  have  a  few  words  with  you,  Lord  Trent, 
before  I  leave,"  he  said  to  Dad  as  we  got  out  of  the  car,  and 
my  father  and  I  accompanied  him  to  the  library.  He  did  not 
seem  to  want  the  girls,  who  departed  together. 

"You  may  as  well  let  me  have  any  agency  papers  and 
references  you  got  when  you  engaged  Linke — not  that  they're 
likely  to  be  of  much  use,"  he  said  briefly. 

"I  fear  you  haven't  found  me  very  helpful,  Begbie,"  said 
my  father,  handing  him  a  paper  from  his  desk.  "One  does 
one's  best;  it  is  such  a  pleasure  to  give  any  possible  aid  to  the 
police." 

Begbie  turned  a  grim  eye  on  him. 

"That  is  very  good  of  you." 

"Certainly,"  said  Dad  pleasantly.  "I  gather  from  the 
press  that  the  police  find  the  going  rather  heavy  at  present; 
a  good  deal  of  criticism  of  their  methods — but  for  my  part  I 
am  entirely  for  them.  Once  let  public  confidence  in  our 
guardians  and  protectors  be  shaken,  and  where  are  we?" 

The  Inspector's  heavy  eyes  narrowed  a  little. 

"Do  you  believe  in  hunches,  Lord  Trent?" 

"An  American  phrase,  isn't  it?  You  mean  premonitions. 
Sometimes  I  do." 

"I  have  a  hunch  that  it  won't  be  very  long  before  I  lay 
my  hands  on  the  person  who  killed  your  servant,  Linke." 

"My  ex-servant,  Linke,"  said  Dad.  "I  think  you've  a 


90  BLOODMONEY 

difficult  job  before  you,  but  I  sincerely  hope  you  will;  the 
shooting  on  the  Stanways  estate  is  strictly  preserved.  Good 
morning,  Begbie,  remember  I  shall  be  always  at  your 
disposition,  and  my  staff  will  have  orders  to  give  you  any  help 
they  can  and  supply  all  possible  information.  You  have  my 
best  wishes." 

"Thank  you,  Lord  Trent,"  said  Begbie,  and  went  out, 
closing  the  door  behind  him.  He  could  hardly  have  had  time 
to  cross  the  hall  before  it  opened  again  and  Elaine  appeared. 
Dad's  face  was  grave  and  solicitous  as  he  turned  to  her. 

"I  don't  know  how  I'm  to  apologise  for  all  this  distressing 
business,"  he  said  anxiously.  "Anything  more  unpardon- 
able  " 

"I  don't  know  that  you  need  apologise,"  said  Elaine 
quietly,  her  eyes  on  his  face.  "I'm  not  a  child,  to  complain  of 
what  can't  be  helped." 

"It's  enough  to  drive  the  most  patient  of  guests  away.  It 
distresses  me  even  more  than  it  does  you.  I  feared — well, 
you  couldn't  be  blamed  for  wishing  to  leave  us." 

"No;  I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  go — unless  you  wish  to 
get  rid  of  me.  I  shall  probably  be  as  secure  at  Stanways  as 
anywhere;  besides,  I  don't  see  that  I  can  very  well  go,  as 
things  are.  And  all  my  arrangements  were  made  here,  from 
the  first." 

"Now  this  is  splendid  of  you,  Elaine,"  said  my  father 
warmly.  "You're  not  one  of  those  women  vi^ho  hesitate  and 
wobble;  you  can  make  a  decision  and  stick  to  it.  And  now  that 

this  disturbing  business  is  over " 

"Your  Inspector  Begbie  doesn't  seem  to  think  that  it's 
over." 
"Oh,  Begbie;  I  don't  think  he  knows  much  about  it." 
"Don't  you?"  said  Elaine,  her  eyes  twinkling  oddly.  "I 
agree  with  you,  I  don't  think  he  does  either— yet.  .  .  .  But 
he's  a  persevering  type." 


BEGBIES    CHALLENGE  9I 

"I  shall  leave  it  in  his  hands  with  perfect  confidence  that 
he  will  unravel  it  satisfactorily;  it's  really  no  business  of  mine," 
said  Dad.  "It's  perfectly  absurd,  of  course,  that  Begbie 
should  have  supposed  you  or  Miss  Craddock  could  know 
anything  of  this  man  Linke,  who  I  regret  should  ever  have 
entered  my  house,  and  is  probably  mixed  up  with  other 
rascals  of  his  own  type.  It's  the  devil  of  a  job  to  get  satisfactory 
servants  nowadays;  you  never  know  where  you  are  with 
them.  But  you'll  excuse  me  a  minute;  I've  been  so  much 
interrupted  and  there  are  orders  I  have  to  give." 

He  went  out,  leaving  me  alone  with  Elaine.  There  was 
a  difficult  silence;  she  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  me  to 
speak. 

"So  you're  not  going?"  I  said. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go?" 

"It's  the  very  last  thing  on  earth  I  want!" 

Her  eyes  softened,  and  that  defiant,  challenging  look  died 
out  of  them.  She  came  a  little  nearer,  and  looked  at  me 
rather  oddly. 

"Well,  I  suppose  that's  true  in  a  way,"  she  said,  "and  it's 
real  nice  of  you.  You've  been  very  good  all  through  this 
thing,  and  reliable.  You're  certainly  loyal,  and  that's  a 
quality  worth  while  in  a  man.  It's  a  comfort  to  find  somebody 
who's  got  a  backbone  to  them.  Is  there  anything  you  want  to 
say  to  me?*" 

"What  can  I  say?  Do  you  realise  what  we  shall  be  up 
against  if  they  bring  this  Cranwell  wreck  home  to  us,  after 
Begbie  announcing  it  before  the  whole  company?" 

"Oh,  that.  I  think  we  can  leave  it  to  the  people  who  are 
dealing  with  it;  it's  their  job,  not  ours.  And  I  agree  with 
what  your  Inspector  Begbie  said — 'one  thing  at  a  time.* 
After  all,  Mr.  Rolfe,"  she  said  quietly,  "neither  you  nor  I 
committed  any  crime." 

"All  right,"  I  said  resignedly,  "and  suppose  Begbie  asks 


92  BLOODMONEY 

me  point  blank  if  it  was  my  car  that  drove  up  to  the  Cranwell 
chalk-pit  last  night,  do  you  suggest  I  should  deny  it?" 

"No.  But  I  don't  think  he  will.  If  he  does,  you  can  stick 
out  your  chest  and  say:  *I  cannot  tell  a  lie,  Inspector,  I 
did  it  with  my  little  Chrysler,'  and  refer  him  to  m.e.  I'll 
explain  and  clear  you." 

"I'm  dashed  if  you  do,"  I  said  angrily,  "the  consequences 
aren't  worrying  me.  I've  no  notion  of  hiding  behind  any  girl's 
skirts." 

"That's  all  right.  Skirts  are  too  skimpy  to  hide  anything, 
these  days.  I  quite  understand  you're  thinking  of  me  first, 
I  particularly  don't  want  it  known,  for  the  present,  that  I 
was  mixed  up  with  that  car  chase  and  the  wreck  till  I  know 
more  about  it — and  perhaps  not  then.  And  I'm  willing  to 
take  all  chances." 

"That's  all  to  the  good.  You're  taking  plenty." 

"I  shall  have  quite  a  lot  to  tell  you  very  soon,  Mr.  Rolfe, 
things  are  moving  pretty  fast.  But  I  can't  stay  now,  I'll  have 
to  get  back  to  Jenny." 

She  moved  to  the  door. 

"It's  rather  strange  I  should  need  to  look  after  her,  when 
she's  supposed  to  be  looking  after  me.  The  girl's  all  broken 
up." 

"This  sort  of  thing  is  rough  on  her,"  I  said. 

Elaine  stopped  and  turned  round,  looking  at  me  queerly. 

"You  think  so?  Well — maybe.  She  doesn't  want  to  go,  any 
more  than  I  do,"  said  Elaine  with  a  touch  of  acid  in  her  voice 
as  she  went  out. 

I  dropped  into  a  chair,  feeling  for  my  pipe — the  only 
comfort  I'd  got  left — and  thought  things  over  rapidly  as  I 
struck  a  match  and  felt  the  bite  of  the  tobacco. 

Who  had  fired  the  shot  that  silenced  Linke?  Every  man  is 
entitled  to  live,  but  for  the  mere  fact  of  his  death  I  could 
certainly  feel  no  regret.  Even  if  very  hard  driven,  I  don't 


BEGBIESCHALLENGE  93 

believe  I  could  take  a  man's  life  in  cold  blood.  Who  knew 
whether  it  was  done  in  cold  blood?  How  had  he  come  by  his 
end,  and  in  whose  interest,  down  there  in  the  dark  spinney? 

It  was  a  question  I  hardly  dared  answer,  even  to  myself. 
But  whatever  the  solution,  somehow  it  didn't  rouse  anything 
like  the  revolt  and  resentment  in  my  mind  that — for  instance 
— the  squaring  of  Crieff  had  done.  It  was  no  use  tormenting 
myself  by  thinking  about  it.  I  couldn't  tackle  it;  it  was  not 
for  me  to  hunt  out  the  truth — quite  the  contrary.  My  lips 
were  sealed  and  my  hands  were  tied. 

It  did  occur  to  me  that  the  knowledge  Linke  had  acquired, 
and  his  initiative  in  attempting  to  use  it  against  me,  didn't 
seem  quite  motive  enough  for  anybody  to  take  the  risk  of 
killing  him  unless  there  were  a  great  deal  more  to  be  gained 
by  it. 

Just  then  my  father  came  in,  and  tossed  his  hat  on  to  a 
chair. 

"Elaine  gone?"  he  said.  "Well,  Ken,  what  do  you  think  of 
it  all?" 

"I  think  we're  gliding  over  uncommonly  thin  ice,"  I  said 
grimly. 

"We  seem  to  be  gliding  over  the  solid  efficient  Begbie, 
and  he  bears  very  well,  I  think."  Dad  selected  a  cigar  from 
the  box  and  lit  it  carefully.  "I  wish  he  were  at  the  devil. 
Altogether  an  annoying  business.  Ken.  It  looked  like  distur- 
bing my  arrangements.  And  I  strongly  dislike  having  my 
arrangements  disturbed  by  outsiders.  What's  the  matter  with 
you,  my  boy?  You  surely  need  not  let  your  peace  of  mind  be 
upset  over  the  matter  of  a  dead  blackmailer?" 

I'm  not  very  impressionable,  but  I  IdWted  at  him  with  a 
touch  of  awe. 

"Well  sir,"  I  said.  "I  think  you'll  prefer  I  should  say 
nothing.  I  believed  myself  to  be  a  pretty  cool  hand,  but 
you've  got  me  beaten  into  the  back  seats." 


94  BLOODMONEY 

"You  were  cool  enough,  Ken.  I  was  pleased  with  you. 
And  I  may  tell  you  that  Elaine  is  very  pleased  with  you  too, 
and  with  reason.  You  are  what  you  would  call  solid  with 
Elaine." 

"I  don't  care  whether  I  am  or  not!" 

"Perhaps  not,  at  the  moment.  But  you  will.  And  inciden- 
tally— Miss  Craddock — Jenny,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "She's 
rather  a  nice  little  girl,  that.  I  was  noticing  her  a  good  deal 
to-day;  there  is  more  to  her  than  one  would  have  thought. 
Though  it  was  a  little  unwise  of  Elaine  to  bring  her " 

"I  don't  want  to  discuss  either  of  them!"  I  said  savagely. 

"Very  well,  my  boy,  let  it  be.  By  the  way,"  he  added, 
"what's  this  about  a  car  disaster  on  the  Cranwell  road  last 
night?" 

"You  heard  what  Begbie  said.  A  crash  and  afire;  somebody 
killed." 

"Well,  I  hope  there'll  be  no  more  of  it  or  at  this  rate  the 
county  of  Herts,  will  be  strewn  with  corpses;  I  had  always 
considered  ours  such  a  peaceful  district.  Still,  it  gives  the 
police  something  to  do  and  keeps  them  busy.  I've  been  a 
little  worried,  but  tight  places  are  nothing  new  to  me." 

"I  suppose  you  know,"  I  said  slowly,  "that  I'd  stand  by 
you  whatever  happened." 

"That's  good  hearing.  Ken.  We've  always  stood  by  each 
other,  you  and  I.  And  you  may  want  a  little  support  yourself," 
said  my  father  cheerfully.  "I  daresay  you  hardly  realise  what 
trouble  I'm  taking  to  do  the  right  thing  by  you.  Don't  you 
think  I've  managed  rather  well  under  difficult  conditions?" 

"If  you  call  it  managing  well  to  cover  us  all  with  a  net  of 
lies  that  the  police  may  blow  a  hole  through  any  time. 
In  these  cases  the  truth  pays  best,  even  if  it's  tough." 

"My  dear  boy,  don't  say  solemn  and  stupid  things.  Which 
of  us  can  afford  the  truth?  We're  rid  of  Linke;  let's  be  thank- 
ful. You'll  be  declaring  next  that  murder  will  out,  or  something 


BEGBIESCHALLENGE  95 

equally  trite  and  untrue.  Would  you  blame  the  man  who 
killed  such  a  ferret  as  that?" 

"Who's  talking  of  blame?  I'm  not  the  stone-throwing 
variety  of  animal.  I  live  in  a  glass-house  myself,"  I  said  a 
trifle  bitterly.  My  father  smiled. 

"Yes,  yes.  Noblesse  oblige  ...  no  smoke  without  fire  .  .  . 
Once  a  gentleman  always  a  gentleman,  and  an  honest  man's 
the  noblest  work  of  God.  And  we  should  remember  we 
haven't  only  ourselves  to  think  of  when  we  harp  on  the  truth. 
You  recollect  the  Irish  sportsman  who  would  'Rather  die 
than  tell  a  lie,  except  to  save  a  lady'  ?" 

This  was  more  than  I  could  stand. 

"I  wouldn't  harp  on  that  either  if  I  were  you,"  I  said 
sourly.  "Self-preservation's  the  first  law  of  nature." 

Dad  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  always  keep  that  in  mind." 


XVII 
THE  33   BULLET 

After  the  visit  and  inquisition  by  Begbie,  the  household 
was  deHghtfully  quiet  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  One  could 
hardly  believe  these  devastating  things  had  happened  at  all. 
For  my  part  the  place  was  stifling  me.  I  went  for  a  long 
walk  before  lunch  was  announced,  not  returning  till  nearly 
dinner-time,  thinking  things  over.  Later  I  found  there  had 
been  no  news  whatever,  not  so  much  as  a  telephone  ring. 
The  two  girls  joined  us  at  dinner;  they  were  very  quiet  and 
little  was  said.  They  retired  soon  afterwards.  I  avoided  my 
father  and  went  up  to  bed;  I  was  feeling  dead  beat. 

Though  Linke  was  out  of  the  way,  as  soon  as  I  was  back 
in  the  house  and  darkness  fell,  that  strange  sense  of  un- 
easiness and  disquiet  came  back  to  me,  haunting  feeling 
that  we  were  being  overlooked;  that  some  intangible  in- 
fluence was  still  at  work.  One  can't  account  for  these  things, 
unless  they  merely  arise  from  overstrained  nerves.  There 
was  plenty  of  real  cause  for  anxiety  without  that.  This  time 
I  refused  to  give  way  to  it,  turned  in,  and  slept  like  the  dead. 
In  the  morning  I  came  down  late  and  breakfasted  alone. 

The  first  person  I  ran  into  was  Tilden,  the  Wheatb ridge 

doctor,  rung  for  by  the  housekeeper  to  attend  a  parlourmaid 

who  had  collapsed  during  the  night  with  fits  of  hysteria  and 

^jjfailed  to  come  down  to  duty.  He  had  just  seen  his  patient 

-H   ^^^^  ^^  called  out  to  me  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

i^   i^    "Hullo,  Rolfe!  Most  extraordinary  case,  this  footman  of 

>0  ^^ours3  bad  business." 

O    "^^'^^  ^°  y^^  know  about  it?"  I  asked. 

-^  (^  (^  fi^s  called  out  to  examine  the  body,  and  afterwards 

-^  K—jwh^tlClwas  removed  to  Hertford.  I  was  in  Black  Spinney 

-H  ^*yester< 

— < 


THE33BULLET  97 

I  got  Tilden  into  the  morning-room;  he  was  willing 
enough  to  talk  about  it,  though  he  pretended  to  be  in  a  hurry. 
Such  excitements  are  rare  in  our  neighbourhood. 

"I  can  only  tell  you  such  facts  as  a  doctor  can  swear  to," 
he  said,  "the  police  are  keeping  very  close,  and  giving 
nothing  away— it's  my  belief  they're  at  sea  as  to  who  killed 
him  and  why,  though  old  Begbie  plays  the  sleuth-hound  to 
the  life.  To  me,  this  much  is  certain.  Murder.  No  possible 
way  out  of  that." 

"Was  he  armed?" 

Tilden  looked  at  me  in  surprise. 

"What  makes  you  ask  that?  Queer  thing,  for  a  man- 
servant to  be  armed.  Oh,  I  see — Begbie 's  told  you.  I  didn't 
think  he  got  on  to  that  till  later." 

I  had  made  a  slip.  I  knew  Linke  was  armed  when  he  left 
the  house,  for  my  foot  told  me  that  when  it  dismissed  him 
from  Stan  ways. 

"Begbie  did  not  tell  me.  I  asked  because,  if  the  man  did 
happen  to  be  armed,  it  could  be  a  case  of  self-defence  and 
not  murder.  Or  manslaughter  at  the  worst." 

Tilden  shook  his  head. 

"You  can  forget  that,  Rolfe.  He  was  shot  from  behind. 
The  bullet  struck  him  in  the  occiput,  passed  through  skull 
and  brain.  The  man  who  did  it  meant  making  sure  of  him, 
he  just  dropped  in  his  tracks.  And  yet  you've  put  your 
finger  on  the  spot — Linke  was  armed.  Begbie's  convinced 
about  that." 

"The  odd  thing  is  that  no  weapon  was  found  on  him. 
He'd  a  hip  pocket,  the  button  was  open,  and  they  found 
unmistakably  that  he'd  carried  a  gun  in  it — I  could  see  that 
much  myself.  There  was  the  outline  of  it  marked  in  the  cloth, 
the  bulge  where  a  revolver  drum  had  stretched  it.  Not 
enough  to  swear  by,  you'd  think — but  there  were  a  couple  of 
cartridges  in  one  of  his  vest  pockets.  I  saw  them;  short  44 


98  BLOODMONEY 

revolver  shells.  The  gun  itself — gone.  They've  searched  the 
wood  for  it;  no  result." 

"Do  they  suppose  the  killer  shot  Linke  with  his  own 
gun?" 

"That  certainly  isn't  so.  The  bullet  that  killed  Linke 
wasn't  fired  at  particularly  close  quarters " 

"Even  though  he  was  shot  in  the  dark?" 

"Yes.  There  was  a  fairly  bright  moon  last  night,  if  you 
remember — though  it  must  have  been  pretty  dark  in  the 
Spinney.  Anyway,  not  close  enough  for  the  powder  grains  to 
lodge  in  his  skin  or  his  back  hair — there's  no  trace  of  that, 
and  these  little  pistols  spit  like  cats.  The  main  point  is  that 
the  bullet  passed  clean  through  Linke 's  skull  and  lodged  in  an 
old  tree  trunk  in  front  of  him.  It's  a  nickel-capped  33  bullet, 
the  type  that's  used  in  a  small  Wesson  automatic.  That,  or 
something  very  similar,  was  the  weapon  the  murderer 
used." 

Begbie  had  told  me  nothing  of  this.  Had  he,  I  wondered, 
known  it  when  he  took  us  to  the  Spinney? 

"Used — and  then,  apparently,  took  Linke 's  gun  away  with 
him,  but  I  don't  see  why  he  should  do  that,"  I  said.  "What's 
your  theory  about  it  all.  Doctor?" 

"Me?  I  don't  deal  in  theories;  I'm  a  scientist  and  work  on 
facts.  In  any  case  sleuthing  is  not  my  job:  I  have  a  crowd  of 
patients  on  my  hands  who  need  my  attention  more  than 
this  dead  man,  even  if  he  had  been  worth  saving,"  said 
Dr.  Tilden  as  he  collected  his  bag  and  moved  to  the  door. 
Then  he  halted  and  looked  back  at  me.  "A  strange  business, 
Rolfe.  It  looks  as  if  you — or  rather  your  father — has  been 
entertaining  a  crook  unawares,  whose  activities  have  been 
cut  short  by  some  more  efficient  crook  with  a  very  strong 
motive  for  putting  him  out  of  the  way.  As  it's  generally 
accepted  that  dead  men  don't  tell  tales,  that  motive  for  the 
present  is  dark." 


THE33BULLET  99 

"It  will  stay  in  the  dark  till  they  find  the  man  who  killed 
him,"  said  I,  "if  they  ever  do." 

"Oh,  they'll  get  him  all  right,"  said  Tilden.  "They  always 
do  in  these  queer,  sensational  cases  that  look  so  mysterious 
at  first.  I'll  give  you  any  odds  that  they  rope  the  murderer  in. 
There's  only  one  crime  in  law  that  calls  for  the  death  penalty; 
one  may  hang  a  citizen  by  the  neck  with  due  formality  and 
public  approval,  but  one  mustn't  shoot  a  man  through  the 
head  for  one's  own  advantage.  Well,  I  must  be  going — they 
may  want  me  again." 

Dr.  Tilden  looked  at  me  searchingly;  a  habit  of  his 
derived  doubtless  from  his  practice,  though  I  have  never 
been  one  of  his  patients — and  drove  away.  When  he  had  gone 
I  crossed  the  hall  and  went  down  the  passage  into  the  gun- 
room. 

I  looked  at  the  three  locked,  glass-fronted  cabinets.  This 
was  one  of  the  best  equipped  rooms  in  the  house.  Nothing 
that  a  shooting  man  could  want  was  lacking,  except  that  a 
pair  of  Purdey  ejectors  were  not  in  their  place;  they  would 
pawn  for  a  hundred  pounds  and  must  have  cost  over  three 
times  that.  There  were  several  other  pieces,  and  two  deer- 
stalking rifles,  besides  smaller  arms.  I  am  a  fairly  good  shot 
myself,  but  I  was  never  in  Dad's  class.  I  saw  him  once  shoot 
against  Winans  the  American,  and  draw  the  match — about 
the  only  man  who  could  have  done  it. 

I  scarcely  know  what  I  expected  to  do  in  the  gun-room, 
but  I  got  the  key  and  went  through  the  first  of  the  two  cabinets, 
rummaging  m  the  little  drawers  beneath  the  gun-rack. 
There  was  an  untidy  raffle  of  stuff  in  one  of  them;  wire 
brushes,  old,  mixed-up  shot  gun  and  revolver  cartridges, 
evidently  long  forgotten,  and  a  couple  of  tarnished  nickel- 
cased  33  shells.  I  slipped  those  at  once  into  my  pocket,  and 
was  hunting  for  more  when  I  felt  a  hand  laid  on  my  shoulder 
and  started  as  I  turned  round  and  faced  the  old  man.  He  was 


100  BLOOD    MONEY 

smiling  affectionately,  the  cigar  between  his  teeth,  but  his 
eyes  were  as  hard  as  a  gun  barrel. 

"Anything  you  want,  Ken?"  he  said,  ^nd  added  rather 
mockingly,  "Feel  like  a  little  shooting  to  take  your  mind 
off  things?  Take  your  choice — except  the  Purdeys." 

"There  isn't  a  33  automatic  in  stock,  is  there?"  I 
asked. 

"A  33?  Why?" 

"It  was  a  33  bullet  that  killed  Linkc — so  Tilden  tells  me. 
They've  just  found  it." 

"Indeed?  How  interesting.  Ken.  The  next  thing  they  will 
find,  no  doubt,  is  the  gun  that  fired  it;  though  that  may  take 
some  doing.  I  wouldn't  be  seen  dead  with  such  an  outlandish 
toy.  I  have  never  owned  one." 

"Look  here.  Dad "  I  said  under  my  breath. 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  replied  very  gently,  "I  want  you  to 
keep  outside  all  this;  it  is  not  your  affair.  Get  out  of  here. 
Go  and  look  after  your  guest;  or  if  that  doesn't  appeal  at 
the  moment,  take  a  gun  into  the  park  and  try  to  look  as  if 
you  were  on  good  terms  with  yourself.  I'm  afraid  there  isn't 
much  to  shoot  on  the  place  except  vermin  and  I  always 
recommend  small  calibres  for  those — far  more  sporting. 
There's  a  nice  little  Reilly  double  20-bore  over  there." 

"And  Ken,"  he  added,  as  I  turned  away.  "Do  stop  worry- 
ing about  the  man  Linke.  It's  so  futile,  and  no  concern  of 
yours;  nobody  can  possibly  suspect  you  of  having  fired  that 
shot." 

"I'm  beginning  to  wish  they  did,"  said  I,  and  went  out, 
closing  the  door  silently.  I  went  down  to  the  garage  to  over- 
haul the  car,  and  on  the  way  I  dropped  the  two  nickel  shells 
through  a  clink  into  the  old  covered  well  behind  the  yew 
fence;  it  is  sixty  feet  deep,  and  I  liked  the  little  tinkling 
splash  they  made  as  they  disappeared.  There  would  be  no 
getting  them  out  of  that.  Quite  impossible  to  drain  the  well 


THE33BULLET  101 

for  it  had  once  been  tried;  and  there  was  a  deep  deposit  of 
silt  under  the  water. 

I  spent  some  time  in  the  garage,  and  coming  back  past 
the  well  I  rounded  the  corner  of  the  yew  hedge  and  suddenly 
became  aware  of  Elaine,  standing  in  the  entrance  of  a  little 
summer-house  close  by,  on  the  edge  of  a  patch  of  neglected 
rose  garden.  She  beckoned  to  me. 


XVIII 
SPIKE  O'DOWD 

"I've  been  looking  for  you,"  said  Elaine,  "and  I  think 
it's  time  we  got  together.  Come  in  here  and  sit  down.  That 
policeman  hasn't  shown  up  again  yet?" 

"No.  There's  no  news — except  what  I  got  from  the  doctor." 

She  asked  what  it  was,  and  I  told  her.  There  was  no  point 
in  keeping  a  thing  like  that  from  her;  it  would  become  common 
knowledge  very  soon  anyhow;  besides,  I  wanted  to  see  how 
she  reacted  to  it.  Elaine  listened  attentively,  and  made  no 
comment.  She  did  not  seem  to  want  to  discuss  Linke. 

"Did  you  tell  the  Inspector  about  that  message  you  got  at 
Euston — warning  you  fo  steer  clear  of  me?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course  I  didn't.  You've  got  the  letter.  If  you  didn't 
see  fit  to  tell  him  about  it,  how  could  I?" 

"That's  all  right.  If  I  hadn't  taken  it  from  you,  would  you 
have  told  him?" 

"No,"  I  said,  a  little  irritably,  "the  letter  was  about  you 
and  had  your  name  in  it.  You  don't  suppose  I  would  hand 
over  the  correspondence  of  my  friends  to  the  police — not 
even,"  I  added,  remembering  how  she  had  dragged  Jenny 
off  to  see  the  body,  "in  the  interests  of  justice." 

"You  mean  by  justice,  the  discovery  of  the  man  who  killed 
Linke,"  she  said,  with  an  odd  inflexion  in  her  voice.  "Are 
there  any  circumstances  in  which  you  would  put  them  on  to 
that  letter — if  you  found  yourself  driven  to  it?" 

"I  might,"  I  said  slowly.  "It  would  depend.  I  don't  know 
yet  that  the  letter  had  anything  to  do  with  Linke." 

She  looked  at  me  with  the  trace  of  a  smile. 

"No,  we  don't  know  that.  I'm  not  thinking  so  much  about 
Linke  just  now.  See  here.  Ken — by  the  way  you  don't  mind 
being  on  the  list  as  Ken,  do  you?  Your  father  calls  me  Elaine, 


SPIKE    ODOWD  103 

anything  else  seems  a  little  stiff  after  what  we've  hustled 
through  together  this  last  two  days.  I  feel  like  one  of  the 
family." 

"Do!  It  sounds  much  more  comforting." 

Elaine's  eyes  twinkled. 

"You're  certainly  comforting,  Ken.  But  let's  get  on.  The 
point  is,  not  whether  there's  a  connection  between  Linke 
and  that  letter,  but  whether  there's  any  between  him  and 
the  crash  in  the  chalk-pit — which  I  owe  to  you.  Who's  that 
yonder?"  she  exclaimed,  as  a  figure  came  in  view,  wheel- 
ing a  cycle  up  to  the  back  entrance.  Her  nerves  seemed  less 
steady  than  usual. 

"It's  the  boy  with  the  papers." 

"Papers?  Get  them,  quick!" 

I  was  just  as  anxious  to  see  them  as  she  was.  The  papers 
arrive  late  in  these  backwoods  of  ours.  My  father  never  looks 
at  anything  but  The  Times;  I  let  that  go  indoors  and  brought 
the  Mail  and  our  local  Hertford  sheet  out  to  the  summer- 
house,  where  we  both  searched  them  rapidly.  To  my  surprise 
there  was  only  the  briefest  reference  to  the  Linke  case.  It 
was  headed  "Man-servant  Found  Shot,"  and  the  few  details 
given  were  as  bald  as  the  heading.  The  report  must  have 
reached  Fleet  Street  too  late  for  any  elaboration,  the  night 
before. 

It  looked  to  me  as  if  Begbie  were  holding  the  thing  back 
from  the  papers.  I  guessed  that  the  journalists  would  be 
flocking  down  quick  enough  if  they  winded  the  scent  of  this 
case.  .  .  .  Lord  Trent's  footman  murdered  in  a  wayside 
spinney,  and  apparently  not  a  clue  to  show  why  or  how  the 
crime  was  committed.  There  would  be  no  keeping  them  away 
from  it.  But  the  police  often  ride  off"  their  allies  of  the  Press 
until  they  are  ready.  Once  they  decide  to  ring  the  bell,  the 
music  starts. 

On  the  other  hand,  plenty  of  publicity  was  given  to  the 


104  BLOOD    MONEY 

death  on  the  Cranwell  Road  ...  so  much  so  that  it  over- 
shadowed the  Linke  affair.  Here  it  was  in  large  headlines. 
I  began  to  suspect  Begbie  of  more  subtlety  than  we  had 
given  him  credit  for, 

MYSTERIOUS  CAR  WRECK 

Unidentified  Body 


The  burnt-out  remnants  of  a  motor-car  were  found  early 
yesterday  morning  in  a  chalk-pit  at  the  angle  of  a  lonely 
by-road  two  miles  south  of  Cranwell  village,  in  Hert- 
fordshire. 

Nearby  lay  the  body  of  a  man,  so  disfigured  as  to  be 
unrecognisable.  The  car  was  evidently  travelling  at  high 
speed  when  it  crashed  through  a  fence  on  the  edge  of  the 
pit.  Investigations  show  that  the  driver  of  the  car  was  not 
alone  and  there  was  almost  certainly  at  least  one  other 
occupant  at  the  time. 

If  so  he — or  they — have  apparently  vanished  in  the  most 
mysterious  manner,  for  no  other  remains  have  been  found, 
nor  was  any  report  of  the  disaster  made  to  the  police  nor  to 
other  authorities,  though  the  wreck  must  have  occurred  a 
considerable  time  before  the  discovery  was  made.  The  loneli- 
ness of  the  spot  accounts  for  the  fact  that  the  flames  were 
not  seen. 

The  car  carried  number-plates  which  are  still  legible  and 
have  been  traced.  The  number  is  found  to  be  false;  the  plates 
were  substitutes  or  "fakes."  The  car  is  believed  to  have  been 
a  large  six-cylinder  Buick  which  was  stolen  from  a  London 
car-park  two  days  ago. 

Though  the  dead  man  is  not  certainly  recognisable  there 
is  good  reason  for  the  belief  that  he  is  one  O'Dowd,  com- 
monly known  as  "Spike"  O'Dowd,  a  dangerous  character 
who  has  served  terms  of  imprisonment  for  jewel  thefts,  and 
one  for  robbery  with  violence. 

If  this  is  correct,  what  was  the  errand  that  took  O'Dowd 
along  the  Cranwell  Road,  and  how  did  the  crash  occur? 
What  has  become  of  his  companion,  assuming  that  he  had 
one? 


SPIKEODOWD  105 

There  were  two  cars  at  or  near  the  spot,  probably  at  the 
same  time.  The  tracks  of  both  are  intermingled,  but  visible 
in  the  dust  of  the  road.  One  was  shod  with  new  Dunlop 
tyres,  the  other  had  a  set  of  Goodrich's.  These  latter  lead 
to  the  brink  of  the  pit.  The  tyres  on  the  wrecked  car  are 
completely  consumed  by  fire. 

The  stolen  Buick  had  Goodrich  tyres. 

The  car  with  the  Dunlops  has  been  tracked  to  the  junction 
with  the  Great  North  Road,  where  all  trace  of  it  is  lost. 


Here  the  account  ended.  It  looked  as  if  further  information 
was  withheld.  The  finish  was  just  a  note  of  interrogation. 

I  read  it  at  the  same  time  as  Elaine,  both  our  heads  close 
together  over  the  paper.  I  felt  an  enormous  relief. 

If  this  account  was  right,  I  had  baulked  a  notorious  jail- 
bird who  was  out  to  commit  a  robbery,  and  had  allowed  him 
to  crash  and  break  his  neck.  That  was  all  there  was 'to  it. 
They  couldn't  land  me  in  any  serious  trouble  for  that  nor 
the  two  girls  either;  even  though  there  might  be  a  kick 
because  we  hadn't  gone  straight  to  the  police  about  it.  Anyway 
I  had  committed  no  offence.  Very  much  the  contrary;  in  fact 
I  thought  they  ought  to  present  me  with  an  illuminated 
address  and  the  freedom  of  Hertford  in  a  golden  casket. 

But  when  I  looked  at  Elaine  I  found  she  was  not  sharing 
my  satisfaction.  She  looked  worried  and  anxious;  I  thought 
she  seemed  disappointed  with  the  news,  such  as  it  was. 

"Spike  O'Dowd?"  I  said.  "Ever  hear  of  him?" 

"Never,  until  now." 

"Well,  he's  just  a  commonplace  jewel  thief,  evidently — 
or  rather  was.  We  certainly  needn't  worry  about  him.  The 
police  will  soon  put  that  business  right." 

"If  it  were  only  that!"  she  said.  "But  who's  the  other  man 
— the  companion  who  was  with  him  in  the  car?  That's  what  I 
want  to  know.  What's  become  of  him — who  was  he — is 
he  alive  and  has  he  got  away  with  it?  I've  got  to  sit  tight  till 


I06  BLOODMONEY 

I  find  out.  If  I  thought  it  was  an  ordinary  jewel  hold-up,  I 
wouldn't  worry  .  .  .  especially  as  it's  failed." 

"Look  here,  Elaine,"  said  I,  "this  isn't  any  vacation  trip 
to  Europe  you're  taking.  There  was  trouble  of  some  sort  for 
you  in  the  States,  and  you  left  to  get  quit  of  it;  why  don't 
you  let  me  help?  Not  that  they'll  start  anything,  after  last 
night's  show!" 

"I'm  rather  hoping  they  will,"  she  said  quietly. 

"You  hope  they  will!" 

"Yes.  I'd  be  easier  in  my  mind  if  they  did.  But  I'm  giving 
nothing  away." 

"Can't  you  see  there's  no  getting  away  from  this  business 
now? — the  police  have  placed  O'Dowd  and  they'll  be  taiUng 
the  other  man.  If  you're  in  any  danger  there's  only  one  thing 
to  do — tell  them  you  were  in  it,"  I  urged:  "Tell  them  what 
you  know." 

"You  mean — tell  Inspector  Begbie?" 

"Of  course!" 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  queer  little  smile. 

"Come  now,  Ken,"  she  said,  "did  you  tell  Begbie  all  you 
know  about  Linke?" 

I  was  dumb. 

"Dare  you?"  she  continued.  "No.  And  haven't  you  some- 
one to  consider — besides  yourself?  Well,  it's  the  same  with 
me.  I've  troubles  of  my  own." 

She  rose  and  left  me  suddenly,  taking  the  newspaper 
witJi  her,  and  disappeared  into  the  house. 

What  did  she  know?  What  did  she  guess?  And  who  was  the 
untraced  companion  of  Spike  O'Dowd,  who  had  apparently 
got  away  from  the  crashed  car.  Could  Linke  have  given  us  the 
key  to  the  mystery,  if  he  had  lived?  Was  the  stolid  Begbie 
likely  to  straighten  all  this  out?  And  if  he  did,  who  would 
pay  the  penalty? 

I  pieced  it  together  as  well  as  I  was  able;  my  own  part 


SPIKE    ODOWD  107 

in  it,  my  father's  silence,  the  behaviour  of  Elaine,  and  the 
fears  of  Jenny  Craddock.  And  though  I  couldn't  see  my 
way  through  it  all,  one  growing  conviction  focused  itself  in 
my  mind,  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else. 

It  had  occurred  to  me  before;  it  seemed  such  an  odd  idea 
that  I  rejected  it.  But  now  I  couldn't  get  away  from  it;  it 
looked  to  me  a  certainty.  It  surprised  me  that  my  father 
hadn't  tumbled  to  it  too. 

Ten  minutes  later  I  was  hunting  round  for  Elaine,  deter- 
mined to  put  it  to  her.  Instead  I  came  on  Jenny  Craddock, 
all  alone,  in  the  morning-room. 

She  was  looking  much  happier  and  more  like  herself; 
she  seemed  to  have  got  over  the  shock  of  the  previous  day. 
She  had  a  prettier  frock  on,  though  still  a  cheap  one,  and  she 
looked  dainty  enough  to  eat.  It  was  the  first  time  for  twenty- 
four  hours  that  I  had  got  her  to  myself.  And  I  was  full  of 
my  new  discovery. 


XIX 

THE  QUESTION 

"Where's  Elaine?"  I  said  quickly. 
She  looked  at  me  with  a  touch  of  surprise. 

"Family  news,"  said  I,  "I'm  to  call  her  Elaine — we're  all 
friends  and  fellow-conspirators  together;  mustn't  stand  on 
ceremony.  We  may  be  wearing  numbers  next  if  we're  not 
careful.  I'm  going  to  take  the  plunge  and  call  you  Jenny." 

"Why,  of  course!"  she  said  laughing. 

"I'm  Ken,  under-dog  of  the  gang.  Try  and  get  Ken  by 
heart,  it's  easy.  Come  and  sit  here  on  the  sofa,  I  want  to  ask 
you  something."  I  made  room  for  her  and  she  sat  down. 

"You  were  asking  me  about  Elaine,"  she  said,  though  I 
didn't  care  any  longer  where  Elaine  was.  "She's  gone  out  in 
the  Essex,  and  doesn't  want  me.  She  told  me  to  stay  in  the 
house,  and " 

"And  avoid  me,  and  tell  me  nothing?"  I  suggested.  Jenny 
flushed. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?  But  you  know  I  have  to  do  what 
I'm  told,  anyway." 

"Do  I?  I'm  not  so  sure.  I'm  sorry;  I — I'd  hate  to  say 
anything  that  could  hurt  you." 

"You  haven't.  We've  done  more  to  hurt  you,  I  think. 
Have  you  seen  this  report  in  the  papers?" 

"Y?s,  and  it  isn't  so  bad;  it  needn't  worry  you.'* 

"No,  it's  not  so  bad — now,"  she  said,  but  she  shrank  a 
little.  "I'm  glad,  because  I  don't  see  how  it  can  harm  you. 
Only  I  wish  it  could  be  known,  and  this  secrecy  wiped  out. 
Far  safer  for  her." 

"Tell  me,"  I  said  anxiously.  "You  must  be  scared  stiff  by 
all  this;  do  you  want  to  get  out  of  Stanways?  It's  a  wonder  if 
you  don't." 


t 


THE    QUESTION  IO9 

"I  can't  go,  as  long  as  Elaine  stays.  And — no,  I  don't 
want  to  go,  now.  For  one  thing,  Mr.  Rolfe " 

"Ken,"  I  corrected. 

"Ken — I  don't  see  I  should  be  better  off  anywhere  else. 
I'd  have  nobody  to  help  me  at  all." 

"You  won't  want  for  that  here,"  I  said  earnestly,  "what- 
ever turns  up,  your  safety  is  going  to  be  looked  to  first." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  worrying  about  myself!"  said  Jenny.  "She 
is  taking  more  risk  than  I  am.  Who  can  tell  how  it  will  end? 
Instead  of  clearing  it  up,  we're  wading  deeper  all  the  time. 
Ken,  can't  you  straighten  it  out — can  you  see  any  light 
through  it  at  all?" 

"Sure  thing,  I  can." 

"What  is  it?"  she  exclaimed,  turning  to  me. 

And  then  I  blurted  it  out,  the  thing  that  had  been  in  my 
mind  for  twenty-four  hours  past. 

"  You  are  Elaine  Corbyn.  Your  friend  is  Jenny  Craddock, 
if  there's  any  such  person  as  Jenny  Craddock.  But  Elaine 
Corbyn  is  sitting  right  next  me  on  this  sofa." 

She  stared  at  me  in  the  blankest  amazement;  the  idea 
didn't  seem  to  get  home  to  her,  she  was  obviously  wondering 
if  I  were  crazy  or  intoxicated.  I  never  saw  anyone  so  sur- 
prised, and  when  she  realised  I  was  serious  she  sat  back  and 
went  off  into  one  fit  of  uncontrollable  laughter.  And  I  felt 
the  biggest  fool  alive. 

I  never  heard  a  girl  laugh  so  much  or  so  whole-heartedly. 
It  was  like  a  champagne  bottle  exploding  and  gurgling.  I  have 
said  her  laughter  was  musical;  at  any  other  time  I  might  have 
found  it  so,  but  humour  depends  so  much  on  the  point  of  view. 

"You  know.  Ken,  you've  been  seeing  too  many  motion - 
pictures!"  she  said,  drying  her  eyes  with  a  little  wisp  of 
handkerchief,  her  shoulders  still  shaking  gently.  "That's  the 
kind  of  idea  they'd  use  for  the  star  episode;  a  real  mystery. 
No,  I'm  not  Elaine  Corbyn." 


110  BLOOD    MONEY 

Then  the  laughter  faded  from  her  lips  and  eyes. 

"Elaine  Corbyn  ...  I  wish  to  goodness  I  were,"  she  said 
under  her  breath. 

"Why  should  you  wish  that?" 

"Why!  Ah,  things  would  be  different.  .  .  .  Life  would  be 
easier  for  me — worth  living,"  she  said  with  an  earnestness 
that  startled  me.  The  handkerchief  was  crushed  into  a  ball 
in  her  palm.  Then  she  turned  and  laid  a  hand  on  my  sleeve 
with  the  most  charming  little  gesture  of  penitence.  "Ken, 
I'm  so  sorry;  I  didn't  mean  to  laugh  at  you.  It  seemed 
80  funny  at  the  moment.  But  it  really  isn't  at  all.  I  only 
wish " 

"For  goodness  sake  don't  apologise  to  me — I  was  just  an 
ass;  it's  good  for  a  fellow  to  be  laughed  at.  Somehow  that 
idea  got  into  my  head,"  I  said  hurriedly,  and  added  with 
much  relief,  "I'm  frightfully  glad  you're  not,  that's  all." 

"Are  you?  Then  that's  all  right,  for  you  need  not  have 
any  doubts  about  it  whatever,"  she  said. 

"And  you  needn't  have  any  fears.  You  say  you  wish  you 
were  Elaine;  tell  me,  if  you  were,  what  would  you  do?" 

"Do?"  she  said,  her  brow  knitting.  "I  would  find  some- 
body that  I  felt  I  could  trust,  I  would  tell  them  all  there  is 
to  be  told  and  get  them  to  help  me  through;  I  wouldn't  keep 
anything  back." 

"And  very  sound  too,"  said  I;  "you  think  Elaine  ought  to 
do  that?" 

"Elaine?  It  isn't  for  me  to  direct  her.  And — life  can  be 
very  difficult  for  a  woman." 

"Life!  What  do  you  know  about  Hfe;  a  child  like  you, 
just  pulled  out  of  your  home  town  and  set  adrift  like  this — 
at  your  age,"  I  said.  Her  eyes  twinkled  with  laughter. 

"I'm  twenty-three,"  she  said  quietly,  to  my  surprise,  for 
I  would  never  have  placed  her  at  over  nineteen,  "not  quite 
an  infant,  and  I've  had  my  ups  and  downs  ;  a  girl  matures 


THE    QUESTION  III 

quicker  than  a  man,  and  she's  got  her  instincts  to  rely  on  too. 
I  may  not  be  as  wise  as  Elaine,  but  I  think  I  know  as  much 
of  life  as  you  do,  Ken;  even  if  I've  not  had  quite  your 
experience." 

"Thank  your  stars  you  haven't!"  I  said.  "Would  you  say 
I  was  a  person  to  be  trusted?" 

"I  haven't  known  you  very  long,"  she  said  simply.  "But 
I'd  trust  you  to  any  extent." 

Before  I  could  say  anything  in  reply  to  that — and  I  don't 
know  what  on  earth  I  could  have  said — I  saw  Elaine  herself 
standing  in  the  open  doorway  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 
How  long  she  had  been  there  I  don't  know.  She  couldn't 
have  heard  us,  but  she  was  staring  straight  at  us;  we  were 
innocent  enough,  but  I  suppose  we  must  have  looked  very 
intimate.  There  was  that  gleam  of  anger  and  resentment 
in  her  that  I  had  seen  before,  only  never  so  marked  as  now. 

She  made  the  slightest  little  beckoning  motion  with  her 
head  as  she  went  out  again,  and  Jenny  rose  and  followed 
after  her  as  meekly  as  a  dog. 

I  felt  sick  and  savage  with  Elaine;  I  was  fed  up  with  it 
all.  My  temper  isn't  of  the  best  at  any  time.  I  saw  no  more 
of  either  of  them  till  dinner-time.  Soon  afterwards  Jenny 
retired  upstairs  by  herself.  In  no  mood  for  the  company  of 
the  others  I  retreated  to  the  gun-room,  and  left  it  later,  to 
wander  about  the  grounds  by  myself,  in  the  darkness. 

As  I  came  back  past  the  open  windows  on  the  terrace  I 
heard  my  father's  voice;  he  must  have  been  sitting  close 
behind  the  curtains. 

"But,  my  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "if  she's  in  the  way,  why 
don't  you  get  rid  of  her?" 

"Get  rid  of  her!"  said  Elaine's  voice,  "I  can't  get  rid  of 
her,  I'm  fond  of  her  too — and  I  owe  a  lot  to  her." 

I  hurried  on  and  went  to  my  own  room.  As  I  turned  in  I 
wondered  what  it  was  she  owed  to  Jenny. 


XX 

THE  INQUEST 

Five  days  have  passed  since  the  discovery  of  Linke's 
body;  days  remarkable  for  their  quietude  and  absence  of 
sensation.  It  has  all  been  so  different  to  what  I  expected,  I 
can  hardly  realise  it  since  it  occurred  to  me  to  set  down  a 
record  of  the  affair  in  writing.  I  know  this  state  of  calm 
cannot  last,  and  I  feel  it  is  about  to  break. 

It  is  strange  that  we  have  heard  so  little  of  Begbie — that 
confident  official.  His  hunch  doesn't  seem  to  have  come  off; 
or  maybe  he  is  developing  it  still.  He  came  to  the  house  only 
once  more,  and  had  only  a  brief  interview  in  the  library  with 
my  father,  who  afterwards  gave  me  an  account  of  it  which  I 
didn't  believe.  Begbie  did  not  ask  to  see  me  at  all.  The  only 
notable  thing  that  has  occurred  during  the  five  days,  was  the 
inquest  on  Linke. 

It  was  a  formal  affair,  that  inquest;  from  our  point  of  view 
it  went  very  smoothly.  Neither  of  the  girls  was  required  to 
attend.  Apart  from  the  police  witnesses,  there  were  only 
four  people  summoned.  The  first  thing  that  transpired  in 
the  enquiry  was  that  Linke's  references  and  credentials  as  a 
man-servant  in  search  of  a  place,  and  which  on  the  face  of 
them  seemed  perfectly  satisfactory,  were  faked,  and  cleverly 
faked  at  that. 

My  father  admitted  that  he  had  never  troubled  to  verify 
them.  Servants  were  hard  enough  to  get  anyhow.  He  had 
taken  them  at  their  value  from  the  London  agency  who  had 
sent  him  Linke.  The  agency,  it  appeared,  knew  little  or 
nothing  of  him;  agencies  seldom  do. 

The  police  themselves  admitted  that  they  had  not  yet 
been  able  to  trace  Linke.  He  was  not  known  to  them,  and 
was  not  on  their  records.  In  fact  they  were  able  to  tell  the 


THE    INQUEST  113 

Coroner  just  nothing  at  all  about  Linke,  previous  to  the 
date  of  his  death.  The  only  fact,  obvious  to  everybody  was 
that  he  had  been  a  shady  character.  The  Coroner  remarked 
dryly  that  it  was  likely  more  would  soon  be  known  about 
him. 

My  father  testified  that  he  had  discharged  Linke  sum- 
marily for  misconduct.  The  misconduct  was  specified; 
listening  clandestinely  to  conversation  between  my  father 
and  myself  instead  of  attending  to  his  duties.  What  was  the 
subject  of  that  conversation?  Lord  Trent's  arrangements 
for  the  reception  of  his  guests,  who  were  to  be  met  in  London 
by  his  son.  Was  there  any  need  for  secrecy  about  these 
arrangements,  and  did  Lord  Trent  at  the  time  attach 
importance  to  the  fact  that  Linke  listened  to  them?  No, 
none  at  all;  Linke  was  dismissed  for  conduct  that  could  not 
be  tolerated  in  a  servant.  I  succeeded  my  father  in  the 
witness-box,  and,  on  oath,  gave  similar  evidence. 

They  let  us  down  very  lightly.  Not  a  tithe  of  those 
searching  queries  that  Begbie  put  to  me  at  Stanways  were 
repeated  by  the  Coroner.  I  had  only  to  answer  his  questions; 
they  were  very  brief  and  direct.  I  wasn't  bully-ragged  about 
the  details  of  the  talk  I  had  with  my  father  when  Linke 
listened  to  us — as  I  had  feared  I  should  be.  Nobody,  not 
even  the  jury,  seemed  to  be  much  intrigued  about  that  side 
of  the  case.  In  fact  I  didn't  have  to  lie  at  all.  I  think  I  made 
a  pretty  good  showing.  I  went  into  the  witness-box  inwardly 
quaking,  and  came  out  of  it  greatly  relieved.  And  yet  I  had 
a  secret  conviction  that  there  was  trouble  hotting  up  for  us 
all  the  time — it  was  only  postponed. 

This  was  the  first  inquest  I  had  ever  attended,  and  it  was 
a  revelation  to  me.  I  had  expected  the  case  to  be  threshed 
out  to  the  very  last  item.  The  truth  is,  there  was  nothing  to 
thresh  out.  No  arrest  had  been  made.  There  was  no  finger 
to  point  definitely  to  anyone  as  having  a  motive  for  the 


114  BLOOD    MONEY 

crime.  The  police  were  careful  not  to  do  anything  of  the  sort. 
Probably  they  were  not  ready.  Begbic  gave  his  evidence  with 
reserve. 

The  jury  were  there  to  decide,  on  the  evidence  in  hand, 
how  Linke  had  met  his  death.  And  that  is  what  they  did. 
My  father's  movements,  and  mine,  were  accounted  for. 
Our  housekeeper,  a  model  of  respectability,  and  the  last 
person,  so  far  as  was  known,  to  have  seen  Linke  alive,  gave 
her  testimony.  I  could  not  seem  to  sense  any  sort  of  suspicion 
that  my  father  or  I  had  dismissed  this  unidentified  footman 
and  then  shot  him.  The  medical  evidence  was  given,  the 
33  bullet  was  produced,  the  manner  of  the  crime  was 
reconstructed. 

"It  appears,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Coroner  quietly,  at  the 
conclusion,  "that  no  evidence  is  yet  available  as  to  who  was 
present  in  Black  Spinney  with  Linke  on  the  night  of  the 
13th,  and  fired  the  shot  that  killed  him.  That  matter  is  still 
under  investigation,  and  may  safely  be  left  in  the  hands  of 
the  police." 

He  summed  up  briefly,  and  gave  his  directions.  The  jury, 
without  leaving  the  benches,  returned  their  verdict. 
"Murder  by  a  person  or  persons  unknown." 
As  the  spectators  and  witnesses  shuffled  out  of  the  court 
and  the  Pressmen,  with  an  air  of  disappointment,  closed 
their  note-books,  I  wondered  how  far  there  might  be  an 
understanding  between  the  Coroner  and  the  police,  and  I 
remembered  that  there  is  nothing  final  about  an  inquest. 
My  father  voiced  the  same  thought  as  I  drove  him  home  to 
Stan  ways. 

"The  beginning,  not  the  end,  my  dear  Ken.  The  Coroner 
reports  to  Assizes,  or  the  Court  of  King's  Bench,  and  there 
they  hope  eventually  to  see  the  benefactor  of  his  country 
who  called  the  career  of  Peter  Linke,  facing  the  music — 
getting  it  in  the  neck,  as  our  American  friends  would  say. 


THEINQUEST  II5 

Do  you  know,  I  doubt  if  they'll  ever  lay  hands  on  him,"  he 
said,  drawing  thoughtfully  at  his  cigar.  "Poor  Begbiel  Ken, 
I  thought  you  behaved  very  well  at  the  inquest." 

I  didn't  want  to  discuss  that  with  him.  And  my  opinion 
was  that  Begbie  had  a  good  deal  more  up  his  sleeve  than  my 
father  reckoned.  Dad  has  always  been  an  optimist.  It  is 
lucky  for  him  that  he  is  also  a  philosopher.  I  kept  out  of  his 
way  when  we  got  back  to  Stanways. 

What  relieved  me  most  was  that  nothing  had  been  said  to 
us  about  the  chalk-pit  crash,  and  the  police  were  still 
reticent  concerning  Spike  O'Dowd  and  his  companion. 
It  did  not  look  as  if  that  had  been  joined  up  with  the  Linke 
tragedy.  But  that  there  was  such  a  connection  I  never 
doubted,  and  I  was  waiting  anxiously  for  it  to  flare  up  and 
scorch  us. 

For  two  clear  days  Elaine  has  been  away  from  us,  entirely 
on  her  own.  In  London,  I  believe.  Dad  may  have  known 
where  she  was;  probably  he  did,  he  was  more  in  her  confi- 
dence than  I. 

She  missed  the  inquest  altogether.  I  can't  say  I  missed 
her.  I  had  Jenny  Craddock  to  myself  nearly  the  whole 
time,  and  I  made  the  most  of  it.  That  was  the  happiest 
forty-eight  hours  I  had  spent  for  many  a  month,  with  the 
most  delightful  little  companion  in  the  world.  And  during 
that  interlude  Stanways  was  a  place  of  peace. 

Jenny  asked  me  about  the  inquest,  or  rather,  seeing  how 
anxious  she  was,  I  volunteered  the  information.  I  gave  her 
a  brief  account,  and  told  her  to  forget  it  for  good.  After  that 
we  paid  no  more  attention  to  mysteries  or  worries  of  any 
kind.  She  said  nothing  about  Elaine,  and  seemed  glad  to  be 
quit  of  her.  We  just  had  a  good  time,  and  threw  caution  to 
the  winds. 

I  drove  her  round  the  country  in  the  Chrysler,  we  lunched 


Il6  BLOOD    MONEY 

in  old  wayside  inns,  where  she  was  as  pleased  as  a  child  over 
black  oak  beams  and  swinging  sign-boards.  On  the  second 
day  I  got  a  couple  of  rough  ponies  from  a  farmer,  and  we 
rode  over  the  chalk  downs.  To  my  surprise  she  rode  like  a 
cowboy;  I  never  saw  a  girl  go  better.  She  had  an  awkward, 
kicking  roan  mare,  and  the  way  she  handled  it  and  galloped 
over  ground  riddled  with  rabbit-holes  gave  me  something  to 
think  about,  for  there  was  no  stopping  her.  I  had  thought 
till  then  that  she  hadn't  much  pluck.  Pluck!  why  she  had 
sand  for  six,  when  you  knew  her.  And  I  got  to  know  her 
well. 

I  can't  write  about  that  time  in  detail;  it  is  too  delightful  a 
memory.  I'm  slow  with  women,  but  I  began  to  think  that 
Jenny  liked  me.  And  if  that  was  so  I  didn't  care  what  else 
happened.  . .  . 

One  thing  I  noticed  was  that  my  father  had  given  up 
trying  to  head  me  off  from  Jenny,  though  he  was  certainly 
abreast  of  all  that  was  going  on,  for  he  never  missed  any- 
thing. He  was  particularly  nice  to  her,  she  got  on  really 
well  with  him,  and  she  told  me  how  much  she  liked  him. 
No  one  can  be  more  charming  than  Dad  when  he  chooses. 
More  than  once  I  wondered  if  he  had  got  the  same  fool 
notion  into  his  head  that  I  had  been  caught  by  ...  it  looked 
like  it  to  me.  He  only  tackled  me  once. 

"Ken,  you're  an  attractive  lad,"  he  said,  "but  it's  strange 
how  badly  you  play  your  cards." 

"Cards  be  damned,"  I  said  roughly.  "I'm  not  playing 
poker.  What  do  you  mean?" 

"Don't  get  heated,"  he  answered  with  that  maddening 
suavity  of  his.  "I'm  only  calculating  how  many  complete 
blunders  you've  made  since  this  business  began." 

"I  made  one  pretty  bad  break  anyhow,"  I  said  abruptly, 
and  then,  feeling  rather  ashamed  of  myself  and  with  a 
return  to  the  old  confidence  between  us — or  perhaps  I 


THE    INQUEST  II7 

wanted  to  see  how  he  would  take  it — I  made  a  confession  of 
my  challenge  to  Jenny. 

He  listened  in  silence,  his  eyes  twinkling. 

"Ken,  my  dear  boy,  you  are  rather  absurd,"  he  said. 
"That  little  girl  let  you  down  very  light.  If  you  drop  any 
more  bricks  like  that  you'll  deserve  all  you  get.  I  see  you're 
off  the  track  altogether;  you're  wandering  in  the  woods." 

"I'm  not  cut  out  for  a  witch-doctor;  smelling  out  mysteries 
isn't  my  line." 

"You  would  sooner  go  philandering  about  the  country 
with  a  pretty  girl.  So  might  I  have  done  at  your  age.  No, 
mysteries  are  not  in  your  line.  There's  a  refreshing  directness 
about  you.  Ken.  But  it  astonishes  me  that  a  fellow  with  as 
much  straightforward  horse-sense  as  you  have  should  get 
into  such  a  tangle  and  not  see  the  way  out.  Still,  when  the 
opportunity  arrives,  I  know  you'll  grab  it,"  he  sighed.  "I 
wish  Elaine  would  come  back.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I'm 
uneasy  about  her." 

"Not  about  Jenny?" 

"No.  She's  in  no  danger." 

That  evening  Elaine  returned,  as  cool  and  matter-of-fact 
as  ever.  She  gave  no  account  of  herself,  at  any  rate  not  to  me. 
She  went  straight  upstairs;  I  think  she  had  an  interview  with 
my  father,  and  I  scarcely  saw  her  till  she  came  down  to 
dinner  in  a  most  overwhelming  new  frock  that  must  have 
cost  a  striking  figure;  and  it  was  a  striking  figure  that  it 
covered;  I  never  saw  Elaine  look  so  well  in  anything.  It 
suited  her  colouring  and  her  dark,  expressive  eyes  to  per- 
fection. 

No  one  would  have  guessed  that  any  cloud  was  hanging 
over  her;  she  gave  us  her  impressions  of  London,  on  a 
first  visit,  and  was  cheerful  and  witty  and  cynical.  My 
father  is  good  at  that  sort  of  thing,  and  the  meal  went  gaily 
enough  except  for  Jenny,  who  subsided  in  a  sort  of  timid 


Il8  BLOOD    MONEY 

reserve.  Afterwards  Dad  retired  to  his  library.  Jenny  passed 
out,  as  if  she  had  had  orders  to  leave  Elaine  alone  with  me. 
Coffee  had  been  sent  into  the  gun-room,  which  I  always 
consider  the  only  home-like  room  in  the  house.  Elaine  made 
a  signal  to  me  which  I  obeyed,  and  we  followed  in  together 
after  the  coffee.  When  we  were  alone  she  arranged  herself 
gracefully  in  the  big  arm-chair  facing  the  window  and  turned 
to  me  enquiringly. 


XXI 

THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW 

"Everything  been  quiet  here?"  asked  Elaine. 

"As  the  tomb,"  I  replied.  It  was  not  a  very  happy  way  of 
putting  it,  for  Linke  had,  I  understand,  been  buried  that 
day  at  Hertford. 

"Was  it  as  melancholy  as  all  that?"  she  asked. 

"It  hasn't  been  melancholy  at  all,"  said  I,  "as  far  as  I'm 
concerned.  If  you're  thinking  of  the  inquest,  I  suppose  you 
read  the  account  in  the  papers;  I've  nothing  to  add  to  it. 
Have  you  any  news  from  London?" 

She  looked  at  me  and  seemed  to  be  thinking  hard;  I  had 
a  feeling  that  she  was  about  to  let  me  into  her  confidence  at 
last,  yet  she  hesitated  still. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  so  much  of  Linke.  I  see  the  police 
haven't  really  placed  him  yet,  and  you'd  think  they  could  do 
that  much,  if  he's  an  Englishman.  But  if  he  were  an  American 
it  would  be  understandable.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  he  was 
that?" 

It  never  had,  while  he  was  alive;  his  speech  seemed  to  be 
that  of  the  average  English  servant.  But  looking  back,  I  felt 
less  sure.  I  remembered  too,  that  he  had  been  here  at  least 
a  fortnight  before  the  two  girls  arrived. 

"Was  he?"  I  said  bluntly.  "You  told  Begbie  you  didn't 
know  him.  You  wouldn't  have  said  that,  I  suppose,  if  you 
had!" 

"No — I  should  not.  For  it  might  be  proved  against  me. 
But — like  yourself,  Ken,  I  am  fighting  rather  shy  of  the 
police,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  think  they  are  beaten  just  at 
present  by  both  those  cases.  Linke  is  dead  ...  I  should 
think  he  was  no  great  loss — to  honest  folk.  But  I  agree  his 
murderer  ought  to  be  brought  to  justice.  He  seems  to 


120  BLOOD    MONEY 

concern  you,  and  Stan  ways,  more  than  he  does  me.  His 
mouth  is  stopped." 

The  phrase  gave  me  a  sudden,  sick  qualm.  I  looked  at  her, 
and  she  met  my  eye  quite  calmly,  continuing  without  a 
break. 

"What  is  in  my  mind  now  is  those  others — the  men  who 
chased  us  on  Monday  night.  The  police  are  stumped  there 
again.  That  looks  very  reassuring.  Linke  is  dead;  Spike 
O'Dowd  is  dead,  of  that  man  who  was  with  him  there  seems 
to  be  no  trace.  And  yet.  Ken,  I'd  got  a  feeling  which  never 
left  me  that  I  was  trailed  all  the  time  I  was  in  London.  I 
couldn't  prove  it,  or  pin  it  down  in  any  way  .  .  .  yet  there  it 
was." 

"Trailed!"  I  exclaimed.  "Well,  what  did  you  go  alone 
for?  If  anyone  meant  making  trouble  for  you,*  especially 
after  what's  happened  already,  they'd  be  ten  times  likelier  to 
get  it  going  in  London  than  down  here." 

"You  think  so?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  London  for  crooks,  every  time.  Trailed! 
Does  it  occur  to  you  it  may  have  been  the  police — keeping 
you  under  observation?" 

She  stared  at  me;  then  she  gave  a  strained  little  laugh. 

"What  for?  To  get  between  me  and  trouble?  How  should 
they  know  I  need  any  protection?" 

"Don't  you  be  too  sure  what  the  police  know,  they 
seldom  give  themselves  away.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  pro- 
tection  " 

"You  mean  I'm  under  suspicion  myself?  Very  likely 
you're  right,  but  if  anybody  trailed  me  in  London  it  wasn't 
the  police.  Something  quite  different.  It  was " 

She  broke  off  and  turned  sharply,  as  the  door  opened. 
Her  coolness  was  superficial,  she  was  all  on  edge;  I  had  never 
seen  her  so  jumpy.  The  intruder  was  Jenny,  who  stopped 
short  in  the  doorway,  disconcerted  as  she  met  Elaine's  eye. 


THEFACEATTHEWINDOW  121 

"Am  I  not  wanted?"  she  said,  a  little  defiantly. 

"Oh,  come  in,"  said  Elaine,  "and  sit  down.  Jenny,  Ken 
tells  me  I  made  a  mistake  going  to  London  alone.  What  do 
you  say?" 

"He's  probably  right.  But  who  can  stop  you  doing  what- 
ever you've  a  mind  to?" 

''You  don't  mind,  do  you  dear?"  said  Elaine  with  acid 
sweetness. 

"What's  the  use  of  my  minding?  It's  been  quiet  enough 
here." 

"Quietness  suits  you  so  well." 

I  was  edging  for  the  door,  anxious  to  make  a  getaway.  I 
didn't  know  what  was  the  matter  with  them,  but  when  girls 
start  scrapping  it's  no  place  for  me. 

"Don't  go.  Ken,"  said  Elaine  curtly.  "I  haven't  finished 
with  you  yet.  Nor  with  you,  Jenny." 

" I'd  rather  you  left  me  out  of  it , "  retorted  the  girl . 

"But  I  want  you  to  hear  it,"  said  Elaine,  dropping  her 
voice.  She  motioned  us  to  follow  her  to  the  ingle-nook  at  the 
end  of  the  room — my  room,  too,  my  only  private  retreat  in 
the  house.  Jenny  went  reluctantly;  for  my  part  I  made  no 
further  objection.  My  temper  was  roughed  up.  If  there  was 
to  be  a  row  I  was  ready  for  it.  I  judged  from  her  manner  she 
had  a  revelation  to  make,  and  I  wasn't  going  to  miss  it. 

And  as  I  passed  by  the  window,  I  saw  something  out  of  the 
corner  of  my  eye  that  brought  me  up  short.  It  was  just  the 
merest  glimpse. 

The  curtains  were  drawn,  but  the  two  tall  casements  were 
open  for  the  night  was  mild  and  close.  Between  the  curtain 
and  the  window  jamb  I  saw  the  upper  part  of  a  face,  a  flat, 
snakey  head,  so  dim  in  the  shadow  that  it  would  have  been 
passed  unnoticed  if  the  eyes  had  not  moved.  It  was  the 
eyes  that  betrayed  it,  peering  at  me,  bright  and  dark  and 
threatening. 


122  BLOOD    MONEY 

I  broke  into  an  oath  that  took  no  account  of  the  two  girls, 
jumped  across  the  room  and  went  out  through  the  window 
with  one  bounce.  I  was  just  aching  for  something  that  I 
could  get  a  grip  of,  and  here  it  was  at  last.  I  heard  a  scream 
from  Jenny,  and  Elaine's  voice  crying  out  excitedly  : 

"Get  him.  Ken.  Get  him!" 

As  I  landed  on  the  gravel  path  I  saw  the  man  flitting  away 
like  a  shadow  across  the  lawn.  I  sprinted  to  cut  him  off  from 
the  gate  and  he  turned  sharp  left — and  I  had  got  him.  There 
was  a  high  wall  with  two  blind  corners  beyond  the  laurel 
hedge  on  that  side,  and  no  way  out. 

He  reached  the  hedge  not  far  ahead  of  me  and  plunged 
through  it  before  he  found  out  his  mistake.  I  was  in  after  him 
and  heard  a  snarl  and  a  scared  oath  as  I  grabbed  at  him  in  the 
gloom  and  felt  my  fingers  skate  over  a  close-cropped  head 
that  ducked  out  of  reach;  I  just  missed  clinching  with  him 
and  for  the  moment  he  slipped  me. 

It  was  as  dark  as  Hades  in  there  between  the  hedge  and 
wall.  I  stopped  dead,  listening  for  the  sound  of  him,  heard 
a  crash  among  the  laurels  farther  along — I  jumped  through 
and  saw  him  racing  back  across  the  lawn  for  the  gate,  with  a 
start  of  half  a  dozen  yards  as  I  whooped  and  went  after  him 
hell  for  leather.  The  hunting  of  Man — there  is  nothing  like 
it  on  earth.  While  I  ran,  judging  whether  I  had  the  speed  of 
him,  I  heard  a  cry. 

Then  a  splitting  crack,  the  white  flash  of  a  pistol-shot  from 
the  window,  and  I  was  sprawling  on  my  face  on  the  grass. 


XXII 
THE  GIRL  AND  THE  GUN 

The  shock  of  the  fall  stupefied  me  for  several  moments, 
till  I  was  vaguely  conscious  of  Jenny  kneeling  beside  me  on 
the  grass,  raising  my  head,  calling  to  me  brokenly: 

"Ken!  Ken!  .  .  .  he's  dying!" 

There  was  a  scuffle,  and  Elaine  came  flying  out  through 
the  window. 

"You've  killed  him!"  cried  Jenny  wildly. 

"Ken,  I  haven't  hurt  you?  Ken,  speak  to  me!" 

I  hadn't  breath  to  speak  to  anybody;  the  wind  was  knocked 
out  of  me  and  my  instep  was  nearly  broken  by  a  croquet 
hoop  I  had  tripped  over — I  had  stuck  it  there  while  teaching 
Jenny  the  infernal  game  the  day  before.  My  mouth  was  full 
of  grass,  my  knee-cap  wrung,  and  my  shin  bruised.  I  seemed 
to  be  the  centre  of  about  seven  pairs  of  female  hands  searching 
me,  and  agonised  voices  asking  where  I  was* hurt. 

"Oh,  for  Mike's  sake!"  I  said,  staggering  up,  "I'm  not 
hit.     If  you  were  trying  to  hit  me  I'd  be  safe  enough!" 

The  only  thing  certain  was  that  the  fellow  had  got  right 
away.  I  looked  round  the  dark  lawn  and  realised  that  pursuit 
was  hopeless  even  if  I  had  been  fit  for  it,  and  in  a  black  fury 
I  limped  back  to  the  window  and  climbed  into  the  room. 

I  turned  to  help  Jenny  in;  she  was  trembling  violently  and 
speechless  with  anger;  for  a  moment  I  thought  she  was  going 
to  fly  at  Elaine,  who  followed  immediately  afterwards, 
breathing  hard  and  very  pale.  She  glanced  at  us  both,  looked 
hastily  round  the  floor,  made  a  dart  for  a  little  black  pistol 
lying  by  the  foot  of  the  sofa,  and  snatched  it  up.  I  made  a 
jump  and  wrenched  it  out  of  her  hand. 

"Give  me  that!"  she  exclaimed. 

I  shoved  it  into  my  pocket. 


124  BLOOD    MONEY 

"Give  it  me,  I  tell  you — !"  She  broke  off,  as  a  step  sounded 
in  the  passage.  "Ken!"  she  said  under  her  breath.  "Don't 
give  me  away!" 

Somebody  fumbled  with  the  door  handle  and  my  father 
appeared,  blinking  at  us  like  a  man  roused  from  sleep. 

"Anything  wrong?"  he  said,  "I  thought  I  heard " 

"Nothing,"  said  I  shortly. 

He  peered  at  me,  and  then  at  Elaine  and  Jenny,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Funny  thing — I  could  have  sworn  ,  .  .  well,  I'd  shut  that 
window  if  I  were  you.  Nasty  raw  night." 

He  backed  out  again  without  another  word,  and  as  the 
door  closed  I  heard  Elaine  draw  in  her  breath. 

"That's  all  right,"  she  said.  "It  was  about  the  worst 
moment  of  my  life.  Ken,  when  I  saw  you  go  down  on  your 
face.  It's  a  pity  that  fellow  who  was  watching  got  away.  Gee!" 
she  added  softly,  "it  was  a  pity!" 

I  stared  at  her  stupefied. 

"Who  was  he?" 

"Who  was  he!  Why  I'd  give  the  biggest  reward  that  was 
ever  posted,  if  I  could  know  that — if  I  could  be  sure  of  that! 
There  was  a  chance  to  find  out,  to-night,  and  I've  missed  it. 
My  luck  wasn't  in.  Ken. 

"You  remember  when  the  Buick  crashed  in  the  chalk-pit, 
and  O'Dowd  came  to  grief,  there  was  a  second  man  not 
accounted  for.  This  might  have  been  he,  I  don't  know.  Until 
I  can  get  him  out  into  the  daylight  I  don't  know  what  I'm  up 
against — not  for  sure.  And  I've  got  to  be  sure." 

"You  can't  do  it  with  a  gun!" 

"Of  course  I  can't.  But  if  you  want  to  know  why  I  used  it 
then,  I'll  tell  you. 

"When  you  had  that  mix-up  with  him  in  the  hedge  and 
came  staggering  out  after  him  and  collapsed,  I  thought  he 
must  have  knifed  you  or  something.  And  so  I  pulled  at  him, 


THEGIRLANDTHEGUN  1 25 

and  wouldn't  have  grieved  if  I'd  killed  him.  You  may  say  it 
was  a  fool  thing  to  do,  but  we  all  do  fool  things  sometimes 
when  we're  wrought  up." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  gave  a  little  laugh  at  she 
turned  to  Jenny. 

"You  see,  Ken  isn't  worrying  at  all  over  the  chance  of 
getting  hurt.  What  upsets  him  is  finding  that  I  own  a  gun." 

"Have  you  had  that  beastly  thing  all  the  time?"  said  I. 

"Yes.  I've  lived  in  places  where  it's  a  good  thing  to  have. 
I'm  pretty  useful  with  it — by  daylight.  If  you  wish  to  know, 
I  would  never  use  it  if  there  were  any  way  of  doing  without 
it.  You  may  say  it's  dangerous  to  own  one;  it  may  be  more 
dangerous  not  to." 

"As  for  that  porch-climber  he's  likely  to  take  the  hint  and 
keep  running  till  his  knees  give  out;  which  isn't  what  I 
wanted.  I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  have  caught  him,  anyway. 
If  I'd  been  alone  I  could  have  got  acquainted  with  him.  Now 
it's  uncertain  what  the  next  move  will  be.  I  simply  daren't 
give  anything  away.  I'm  fixed  so  that  I  have  to  play  my  own 
hand,  you  see." 

"Without  putting  this  up  to  Begbie — as  anyone  else  would 
do?" 

"Now  ask  yourself,  Ken,  how  can  I?  Think  it  over!  And 
don't  suppose  for  a  moment  that  I'm  scared,  either  of  one  or 
the  other." 

"It's  the  last  thing  I  ever  supposed  of  you  !  " 

Elaine  laughed. 

"For  what  I  had  to  say  to  you  and  Jenny,  it  will  wait  till 
the  morning,  and  then  you'll  learn  it  for  yourselves.  And  now 
— my  gun,  please." 

I  took  the  automatic  out  and  turned  it  over  in  my  hand. 
I'm  no  gunman,  and  hate  the  feel  of  these  little  death-spitting 
brutes.  The  breech  was  slightly  blackened  where  the  shell 
had  ejected  itself. 


126  BLOOD    MONEY 

"Thirty-three  Wesson — old  model,"  I  said.  "It  was  a  33 
bullet  from  a  Wesson — so  they  tell  me — that  killed  Linke." 

"And  it  might  be  this  one — eh?"  she  said,  "so  you  see  why 
I  can't  leave  it  with  you.  Give  it  me,  please!" 

"You'll  never  see  this  again,"  I  said,  thrusting  the  pistol 
into  my  hip  pocket.  I  picked  up  the  spent  shell  that  had 
rolled  under  the  sofa,  and  pocketed  that  too. 

She  gave  a  queer  little  laugh,  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  always  get  my  own  way  in  the  end,"  said  Elaine.  "But 
I'm  tired  now,  and  I'm  going  to  bed.  Good  night,  Ken." 

She  went  out  abruptly.  I  was  left  alone  with  Jenny;  her 
face  was  so  strained  and  white  that  I  caught  her  hands  in 
mine. 

"Has  this  wretched  business  scared  you  so.?"  I  said. 

"Scared  me?  I'm  only  scared  for  Elaine — and  for  you!" 
she  said,  and  gave  me  a  look  and  a  sudden  trembling  pressure 
of  her  hands  that  set  my  heart  racing;  the  touch  of  her  was  an 
intoxication.  In  another  moment  I  should  have  pulled  her 
to  me  and  held  her  fast;  I  wanted  her  more  than  I  ever 
wanted  anything  on  earth.  But  she  drew  away  from  me, 
quick  as  a  flash. 

"Don't  stop  me  now — I  must  go,"  she  said  breathlessly, 
and  fled  from  the  room.  It  seemed  to  me  she  was  crying. 
That  was  what  broke  me  up.  I  spent  a  few  moments  cursing 
the  entire  scheme  of  things,  and  registered  an  oath  that  I 
would  see  this  business  through  to  the  finish  whatever  came 
of  it.  Jenny's  troubles  were  mine.  And  I  thought  I  saw  the 
way  out. 

I  fastened  the  window  and  shutters,  took  out  the  little 
Wesson,  and  cleaned  it  very  carefully  with  a  rod  and  a  wad 
of  cotton- waste  from  the  gun  cabinet.  There  is  individuality 
even  about  a  mass-production  automatic  such  as  Smith  and 
Wesson  turn  out  by  the  thousand;  I  made  a  note  of  the 
number,  and  noticed  a  long  light  scratch  along  the  left  side 


THE    GIRL    AND    THE    GUN  I27 

of  the  butt.  The  first  place  that  occurred  to  me  was  the  old 
well  behind  the  garage. 

But  after  thinking  it  over  I  extracted  the  charger  clip  with 
its  row  of  shells,  went  out  quietly  by  the  back  entrance  and 
consigned  the  clip  to  the  depths  of  the  well.  The  empty  pistol 
itself  I  locked  in  a  back  drawer  in  my  old  roll-top  desk  in  a 
recess  of  the  gun-room. 

I  slipped  a  couple  of  duck-shot  cartridges  into  the  little 
double  20-bore,  took  it  upstairs  and  set  it  handy  against  the 
head  of  my  bed.  If  there  were  any  shooting  to  be  done  I 
would  do  it  myself.  After  getting  into  pyjamas  I  smoked  a 
final  cigarette  sitting  on  the  window-sill;  the  moon  was 
rising  over  the  pines  and  everything  was  quiet,  save  for  the 
night  wind  stirring  along  the  laurels. 

I  dropped  into  bed  and  fell  asleep.  For  once  my  dreams 
were  pleasant;  they  were  concerned  entirely  with  Jenny.  I 
could  still  feel  that  quick  pressure  of  her  hands  in  mine.  .  .  . 


XXIII 
THE  NEW  CHAUFFEUR 

A  T  eleven  next  morning  I  came  out  on  to  the  drive  feeling 
in  good  spirits  and  unusually  pleased  with  myself — nearly 
always  a  sign  of  a  bad  day  to  come.  I  stared  wonderingly  at 
an  immense  Rolls-Royce  that  was  drawn  up  opposite  the 
porch,  glittering  and  brand  new.  It  had  a  body  of  the  most 
sumptuous  kind,  and  must  have  cost  anything  over  three 
thousand. 

The  thing  positively  smelt  of  wealth  and  luxury.  At  the 
wheel,  looking  as  if  Stanways  meant  nothing  to  him,  was  a 
hard-faced  man  of  about  forty  with  small  side  whiskers,  in  a 
subdued  sort  of  uniform  that  matched  the  colour  of  the  car 
body.  Even  before  I  spoke  to  him  I  had  the  conviction  that 
he  was  Scottish  ...  I  don't  know  why,  but  he  had  that  air. 

"Who  on  earth  are  you?"  I  said. 

"My  name's  Andrew  McRae,  sir,  and  I'm  engaged  by  Miss 
Corbyn  to  drive  this  car  for  her;  just  delivered,"  he  replied, 
running  his  eye  over  it  disparagingly.  He  spoke  with  a  slight 
Scotch  burr. 

"You're  in  luck  to  have  it  to  drive,"  said  I.  "I  take  it  you 
despise  any  other  job  but  this,  and  any  car  but  a  Rolls." 

"Ye're  wrong,  sir,"  said  the  chauffeur  calmly.  "I'm  a 
man  who  can  turn  my  hand  to  any  job  that  comes  along.' 

I  thought  that  was  luckier  still,  if  it  was  true.  He  would 
probably  find  plenty,  if  he  stayed  at  Stanways.  But  I  saw 
Elaine  in  the  porch,  and  went  to  meet  her. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  new  flivver.  Ken?"  she  said. 
"The  Essex  didn't  do  me  credit,  and  it's  gone." 

"I  like  your  chauffeur,"  said  I,  "he  says  he  can  turn  his 
hand  to  any  job,  and  if  I  were  you  the  first  I'd  give  him  is  to 
shave  off  those  whiskers;  they  don't  go  with  the  car.  As  for 


THE    NEW    CHAUFFEUR  I29 

the  Rolls  I  should  say  it  will  lift  Dad's  credit  sky-high.  Are 
you  going  to  keep  the  thing  here?" 

"Yes — but  I'm  not  quite  sure  for  how  long.  Will  you 
arrange  for  a  place  to  keep  it;  so  it  will  be  handy  if  wanted?" 

"I'll  see  to  it  now,"  I  said,  and  went  down  to  the  garage 
feeling  depressed.  The  sight  of  that  fifteen  thousand  dollar 
car  marked  the  gulf  between  myself  and  Elaine,  and  I  thought 
she  was  foolish  to  buy  it  and  bring  it  here  at  such  a  time 
as  this — unless  she  wanted  to  advertise  herself  and  her 
wealth.  I  shifted  the  Chrysler  into  the  smaller  shed  to  make 
room  for  it. 

The  garage  was  at  the  far  end  beyond  the  old  stable  yard, 
a  considerable  distance  from  the  house,  and  as  I  was 
returning  I  saw  Elaine  come  out  of  the  porch,  closely 
followed  by  Jenny.  I  had  hardly  a  glimpse  of  them;  the  whole 
thing  happened  so  swiftly  that  it  seemed  to  be  done  all  in  one 
motion,  yet  without  any  obvious  haste.  In  a  few  seconds  both 
girls  were  in  the  car,  which  at  once  glided  away.  There  was  a 
big  trunk  strapped  on  the  carrier. 

The  speed  of  a  big  Rolls  is  deceptive.  It  faded  noiselessly 
away  down  the  park  road  at  an  incredible  pace,  and  was  gone 
almost  before  I  realised  what  had  occurred.  Elaine  was 
always  a  hustler.  For  a  moment  I  chuckled,  then  a  chill  of 
consternation  struck  through  me.  Was  this  the  last  of  them? 
Had  Elaine  given  up  and  quit? 

I  hurried  back  to  the  house.  It  seemed  as  desolate  and 
empty  as  the  rind  of  a  stripped  fruit,  now  that  the  two  girls 
were  gone. 

I  found  my  father  sitting  by  one  of  the  side  windows  of 
the  hall  which  gave  a  view  over  the  park  and  approaches.  He 
was  frowning  slightly,  his  cigar  smouldered  in  an  ash-tray 
beside  him,  but  when  I  came  in  he  turned  to  me  and  appeared 
perfectly  at  ease. 

"She's  cleared  out!"  I  exclaimed. 


130  BLOOD    MONEY 

"She'll  come  back,"  he  said.  "Don't  look  so  lost,  Ken. 
You  won't  be  long  deprived  of  your  fair  lady." 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  fair  ladyl"  I  said  furiously. 

"Your  dark  lady,  then,"  said  my  father,  "don't  take  things 
so  hardly,  my  boy,  I'm  very  well  pleased,  myself.  Cultivate 
philosophy,  like  me." 

He  left  me  seething  with  anxiety  and  resentment;  still,  I 
did  get  some  comfort  from  him — he  had  such  a  way  of  being 
right.  But  the  more  I  thought  it  over  the  more  convinced  I 
became  that  Elaine  had  taken  final  leave — anybody  who 
could  get  away  from  Stan  ways  would  be  foolish  to  stop  there, 
and  probably  the  best  thing  I  could  do  was  to  clear  out 
myself;  both  on  their  account  and  mine.  Yet  I  couldn't 
believe  they  would  both  quit  and  leave  me  flat  like  that — 
without  a  word.  But  how  did  I  know  my  movements  were 
not  being  watched?  Some  instinct  told  me  not  to  quit. 

It  was  one  of  the  worst  times  I  ever  spent,  till  about  nine 
next  night  I  passed  by  the  landing  windows  and  saw  the 
Rolls  gliding  noiselessly  as  a  ghost  along  the  track  to  the 
garage.  I  hurried  down,  and  there  was  Elaine  coming  up 
the  stairs — alone. 

"Hullo  Ken!"  she  said.  "How  nice  to  be  back  in  the  old 
home — I  was  always  a  home-lover.  Aren't  you  glad  to  see 
me?" 

"Glad!  I've  felt  like  mud  ever  since  you  went.  This  is  my 
lucky  day.  Where's  Jenny — did  you  leave  her  downstairs?" 

She  looked  at  me  a  moment  before  answering.  Her  eyes 
hardened. 

"No.  I  did  not." 

I  had  taken  it  for  granted  they  had  returned  together. 
Only  now  did  I  realise  she  had  come  back  alone.  She  wanted 
Jenny  out  of  my  way.  She  had  always  been  hostile  to  me;  she 
had  butted  in  and  done  her  best  to  separate  us  every  time  she 
got  a  chance  to  do  it.  Why  did  this  woman  think  she  had 


THE    NEW    CHAUFFEUR  I3I 

the  right  to  run  other  people's  affairs?  A  savage  resentment 
took  hold  of  me;  I  would  have  given  a  good  deal  to  tell  Elaine 
exactly  what  I  thought  of  her,  but  I  could  only  stare  at  her 
speechlessly, 

"No,  that's  not  the  reason,"  she  said,  quickly,  answering 
the  thought  that  I  couldn't  put  into  words.  "Try  and  get 
yourself  out  of  the  picture  for  a  moment.  I  want  a  free  hand 
here  for  the  next  few  days;  things  are  going  to  be  difficult — 
don't  you  see  that  Jenny  is  best  cut  of  it?" 

I  was  a  fool  not  to  have  thought  of  that;  the  loss  of  Jenny 
seemed  to  blot  out  everything  else. 

"Where  is  she?"  I  said. 

"In  London.  Lost  among  six  millions  of  other  nonentities, 
and  she'll  stay  there  awhile." 

I  got  the  idea.  Jenny  had  been  dropped  on  one  of  the 
many  routes  up  to  town — the  best  way  to  lose  her  at  short 
notice.  But  I  didn't  believe  for  a  moment  that  it  was  Elaine's 
real  reason  for  making  that  sudden  getaway  in  the  morning. 
And  it  looked  none  too  good  to  me. 

"Do  you  suppose  you  can  play  hunt  the  slipper  over 
England  in  a  brand-new  Rolls  that  shows  up  like  a  flash- 
light advertisement?  Just  because  you  had  the  speed  of 
Begbie  you  don't  imagine  he  couldn't  'phone  ahead  of  you 
and  get  you  marked  down  wherever  you  went?"  I  said, 
impatiently, 

Elaine  laughed.  

"I  managed  better  than  that.  Get  Begbie  out  of  your  head. 
Now  let  me  go  up,  and  I'll  see  you  when  I've  changed.  I've 
had  a  busy  day  and  what  I  want  is  a  little  restfulness  and 
peace." 

She  left  me  feeling  far  from  peaceful,  though  she  always 
had  a  gift  for  smoothing  things  over.  I  felt  m.ore  certain 
all  the  time  that  she  had  shifted  Jenny  for  some  reason  of 
her  own,  and  not  from  any  concern  for  the  girl's  safety. 


132  BLOOD    MONEY 

For  when  one  got  down  to  it,  Jenny  wasn't  in  any  serious 
danger. 

There  was  a  power  and  a  driving  force  in  Elaine  that  one 
couldn't  get  away  from.  There  was  a  wonderful  charm  and 
attraction  about  her  too,  when  she  chose  to  use  them.  Only 
one  always  felt  there  was  some  motive  behind  it  which  one 
could  not  fathom.  She  had  done  practically  what  she  liked 
with  me  since  she  came  to  Stanways,  often  in  the  face  of  my 
own  judgement,  and  there  are  few  people  who  have  ever 
done  that.  All  that  we  had  gone  through  together  certainly 
did  bind  us  close;  it  was  a  tie  that  couldn't  be  denied  or 
shaken  off. 

Elaine  had  made  an  extraordinary  difference  to  Stanways 
already  in  the  few  days  she  had  been  there.  She  had  got  my 
father  to  let  her  re-arrange  the  shading  of  the  electrics,  the 
lighting  and  the  curtains  in  the  big  hall.  He  was  willing 
enough  to  let  her  do  whatever  she  liked.  She  had  taste — 
a  magic  touch.  I  don't  notice  these  things  much,  but  I 
thought  I  had  never  seen  the  old  place  looking  so  beautiful 
as  it  did  when  I  joined  her  in  the  hall  later,  the  lights  glowing 
softly  on  the  pictures  and  armour,  and  a  fire  of  cedar  logs 
on  the  great  hearth,  scenting  it  all.  She  had  made  the  place 
look  like  home  instead  of  like  a  barrack;  it  had  been  the  home 
of  my  race  for  centuries,  and  I  wondered  if  the  old  Rolfes  on 
the  canvases  round  the  walls  felt  it  too.  Somehow  it  got  right 
hold  of  me. 

Elaine  was  wearing  an  unusually  simple  evening  frock, 
and  just  a  single  little  ruby  hanging  about  her  neck  by  a 
gossamer  gold  chain.  It's  strange  what  distinction  these 
Western  women  have.  I  suppose  she  came  of  ordinary 
work-a-day  people,  and  even  this  freight  of  money  had  not 
been  with  her  long,  but  she  looked  a  thoroughbred  from 
head  to  heel.  She  fitted  Stanways  better  than  I  did. 

We  sat  together  in  two  deep  arm-chairs  near  the  fire; 


THE    NEW    CHAUFFEUR  I33 

there  was  something  about  her  to-night  that  fascinated  me; 
I  should  have  felt  it  much  more  if  I  had  never  met  Jenny. 
She  wouldn't  talk  about  the  things  I  had  my  mind  on,  the 
menaces  and  mystery  that  hung  over  us,  and  I  was  glad  to 
forget  them  for  a  few  moments,  though  I  tried  to  get  started. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself,  Ken,"  she  said,  leaning  back  in 
her  chair,  the  firelight  playing  on  her  face,  "you're  hard- 
shelled,  I  never  seem  to  get  through  your  armour.  What  are 
you  going  to  do  with  your  life — supposing  you  come  through 
this  thing  with  a  whole  skin?" 

"Do?  What  is  there  for  me  to  do  here?  If  you  hadn't 
come  I'd  have  been  half-way  back  to  the  West  by  now. 
That's  where  I  really  belong." 

"And  what  do  you  think  you'll  find  in  the  West? 
Happiness?" 

"Happiness!"  said  I,  "that's  a  queer  thing  for  a  man  to  go 
hunting.  It's  something  that  creeps  into  your  heart  when 
you're  not  even  dreaming  of  it — it  comes  only  to  the  for- 
tunate. No — to  hoe  a  row  for  myself;  follow  my  luck  and 
catch  up  with  it — and  hold  on.  That's  all  I  can  hope  to  do 
and  that's  what  I'm  out  for — the  stuffs." 

"The  stuff— or  happiness!"  She  gave  a  queer  little  laugh 
and  stopped  with  a  catch  in  her  voice.  "Perhaps  you'll  find 
them  both." 

"I  wonder." 

"Ken,"  she  said,  "do  you  think  you  need  go  so  far?  You 
might  make  good,  nearer  home,  maybe.  You  count  for 
something  here,  don't  you;  you've  a  good  start— and  there's 
much  more  to  you  than  you  beUeve." 

"To  me!"  I  said.  "Why,  what  am  I?  Heir  to  thirty  cents, 
and  a  useless  title.  That  counts  for  nothing  these  days.  Less 
use  than  ever,  to  a  rough-neck  like  me." 

"What  makes  you  kick  so  hard  against  Stanways,  Ken? 
There's  a  great  deal  to  that  too.  A  pity  to  let  it  go." 


134  BLOOD     MONEY 

"Maybe  I  wouldn't,  if  it  were  what  it  might  be.  I've  been 
feeling  that,  more  and  more.  To  you,  if  it  wasn't  for  the 
things  that  have  happened  here,  I  should  think  it  would 
be  as  dull  as  death." 

"Places  don't  mean  so  much  to  women,  as  folks  do,"  she 
said.  "It's  strange  how  blind  men  are." 

She  rose,  and  I  remembered  thinking  how  graceful  she 
was  as  she  moved  over  to  the  radio  set  and  opened  it.  It 
was  long  since  I'd  taken  much  interest  in  the  thing;  my 
father  used  it  to  get  the  racing  news.  She  turned  the  switch, 
and  the  old  hall  filled  with  a  flood  of  ringing  music — the 
dance  orchestra  at  the  Carlton. 

Horn  and  saxophone  and  violin,  fine  heart-lifting  stuff 
as  sweet  as  a  blackbird's  pipe  and  as  merry  as  a  nigger 
whistling  a  breakdown,  with  just  that  note  of  sentiment  in 
it  that  gets  your  pulse  going.  Some  people  sneer  at  that 
sort  of  music;  it's  always  good  enough  for  me.  It  brought 
all  London  into  Stanways  like  the  touch  of  a  magician,  it 
sang  of  wealth  and  yellow  wine  and  laughter  and  the  joy  of 
living. 

And  there  was  Elaine  standing  in  front  of  me,  smiling, 
her  dress  shimmering,  the  ruby  red  on  the  cream  of  her 
throat  and  the  challenge  in  her  eyes. 

"You  said  you  had  no  parlour  tricks.  Ken.  Can  you 
dance?" 

Dancing's  one  of  the  things  I'm  not  so  bad  at — in  a 
moment  I  had  hold  of  Elaine  and  we  were  at  it,  in  full  sv^dng. 
It  was  an  age  since  I'd  had  a  girl  in  my  arms,  and  in  all  my 
life  I've  never  had  a  partner  like  Elaine.  She  was  wonderful, 
she  danced  like  thistledown.  And  she  looked  up  into  my 
eyes  and  laughed. 

"You're  not  so  bad,  Ken,  for  a  rough-neck!" 

It  was  an  intoxication.  I  don't  know  how  long  it  lasted, 
how  often  we  danced,  nor  what  I  said  or  did  ...  I  thought 


THE    NEW    CHAUFFEUR  I35 

once  I  saw  my  father's  face  for  a  moment,  at  the  end  of  the 
hall,  but  it  faded  out.  And  at  last  the  music  died  into  silence. 

We  stopped,  both  of  us,  in  the  centre  of  the  hall  .  .  .  and 
old  Big  Ben  lifted  his  midnight  voice,  boom  after  boom, 
solemn  and  slow,  the  great  bell  in  the  Clock  Tower  sixty 
miles  away  came  to  us  as  clear  as  if  we  were  standing  in 
Westminster  under  the  shadow  of  the  Abbey.  That  deep 
bronze  voice  .  .  .  how  the  memory  of  it  stirs  the  heart  of  the 
exile.  And  I  felt  Elaine's  heart  beating  against  mine. 

I  was  spellbound;  till  the  end  came  and  the  last  note  died 
away  I  don't  think  I  realised  that  I  was  holding  her  to  me, 
my  arms  round  her.  And  she  stayed  like  that,  as  quietly  as 
a  child.  .  .  . 

I  went  up  to  bed,  my  head  swimming.  .  .  . 


XXIV 
AGAINST  ORDERS 

I  CANNOT  in  this  record  of  events,  set  down  what 
happened  at  Stan  ways  during  the  next  three  days.  A  woman 
might  write  it,  but  it's  beyond  me. 

Begbie  never  came  near  us.  The  mysterious  watcher,  too, 
seemed  to  have  quit,  perhaps  he  found  Stanways  too 
dangerous.  No  news  reached  us — at  least  none  reached  me. 
It  was  the  calm  before  the  tempest.  And  yet  for  me  it  was 
the  fullest  time  I  had  had  since  our  guests  first  came,  and  the 
most  difficult. 

Elaine  and  I  were  together  nearly  all  the  while.  I  see  now 
that  I  never  understood  her.  She  compelled  admiration, 
and,  in  a  sense,  devotion;  quite  apart  from  her  bright,  quick 
brain  and  her  courage,  there  was  something  great  about 
Elaine.  And  behind  it,  as  I  thought,  there  was  something 
little;  a  bitterness  or  a  vindictiveness,  though  she  did  not 
show  it  to  me  openly. 

If  I  were  the  sort  of  fool  who  thinks  it  natural  that  a 
woman  should  care  for  him  and  make  him  her  chief  interest 
in  life,  I  might  have  had  some  excuse  for  thinking  it  during 
that  time.  But  always  there  was  the  lurking  conviction  in  me 
that  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  rather  disliked  me;  that 
she  had  it  in  for  me  and  wouldn't  be  sorry  to  lead  me  on  and 
then  let  me  down  with  a  crash. 

I  couldn't  get  that  out  of  my  head.  What  her  reason  was 
I  could  not  fathom — unless  that  she  resented  the  idea  that 
my  prospective  title  and  position  were  a  prize,  and  there  was 
some  strain  of  cruelty  in  her  that  led  her  to  get  me  to  her 
feet  and  then  leave  me  flat. 

It  angered  me;  I  couldn't  see  why  she  should  think  so, 
and  out  of  sheer  perversity  I  played  up  to  her  for  all  I  was 


AGAINST    ORDERS  137 

worth;  she  wasn't  Jenny,  and  I  did  not  care  what  she  might 
do  or  not  do.  It  was  her  treatment  of  Jenny  that  galled  me. 
I  was  willing  to  do  anything  to  keep  on  the  right  side  of 
Elaine  rather  than  risk  losing  Jenny. 

Lord  forgive  us!  what  a  poor  show  we  make  when  we 
start  judging  each  other,  and  how  little  I  knew  of  Elaine. 
It  was  Jenny  who  was  in  my  mind  all  the  time;  and  I  tried 
to  keep  it  from  her — not  to  let  her  see  it. 

The  odd  thing  was  that  when  Elaine  was  not  with  me, 
she  was  generally  with  Dad.  She  would  sit  with  him  in  the 
library  by  the  hour  together;  what  they  had  to  say  to  each 
other  I  never  knew.  On  these  occasions  she  didn't  want  me; 
I  suppose  she  felt  the  need  of  getting  next  to  a  superior 
intelligence  to  mine.  It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  second 
day  that  Dad  remarked  to  me  with  unusual  seriousness: 

"You  seem  to  be  getting  on  excellent  terms  with  Elaine, 
Ken." 

"You  think  so,  do  you?"  I  said. 

"Surely  it's  obvious." 

"Since  you  see  so  much,"  I  said,  exasperated,  "can't  you 
see  she  intends  doing  her  best  to  make  a  fool  of  me;  though 
why  she  should  take  the  trouble  I  don't  know." 

"I  don't  see  how  she  can  make  a  more  complete  fool  of  you 
than  you  are,  my  dear  Ken.  Even  Elaine  cannot  improve  on 
Nature.  I  mean,  of  course,  a  fool  where  women  are  concerned. 
I  suppose  you  were  born  blind,  Uke  a  puppy,  and  have  never 
got  your  eyes  open." 

"Blind — to  what!  Look  here,"  I  said  hotly,  for  my  nerves 
were  rasped  beyond  endurance,  "it  sickens  me  to  be  talking 
of  a  woman  in  this  way  behind  her  back,  but  you  must  be 
blinder  than  I  if  you  suppose  Elaine  is  the  woman  I  would 
ask  to  marry  me.  Is  that  idea  still  in  your  mind — has  it  come 
back  to  you?  If  so  get  it  out — it's  the  one  thing  on  this  earth 
that  will  never  happen  now." 


138  BLOOD    MONEY 

"Is  that  final?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"It's  completely  final.  So  forget  it." 

"Very  well,"  he  said. 

He  turned  away,  and  paused  to  look  back  at  me. 

"That  being  the  case  take  one  word  of  advice  from  me,  Ken, 
and  stop  playing  with  fire  . . .  the  kind  of  fire  that  has  burned 
better  men  than  you  to  a  cinder." 

He  retreated  into  the  library  and  closed  the  door.  I  was 
rather  taken  aback  by  the  quiet  way  he  accepted  the  situation. 
I  thought  we  were  on  the  brink  of  what  had  never  happened 
between  us  before;  an  explosion  and  a  quarrel.  I  was  ready  for 
it,  yet  it  was  a  relief  to  know  we  had  escaped  it.  But  I  had 
never  been  able  to  fathom  my  father's  mind;  to  me  he  was 
impenetrable  as  the  Sphinx. 

He  must  have  known  for  some  time  past  that  the  only 
woman  I  cared  for  was  Jenny.  That  fact  was  fatal  to  all  his 
plans,  and  he  knew  it — yet  he  didn't  seem  to  object  to  it  any 
longer.  I  wondered  more  than  once  if  he  had  anything  to  do 
with  her  disappearance  from  Stan  ways.  But  it  was  not  so. 
That  was  Elaine's  doing,  and  Elaine's  only. 

Elaine  and  my  father  were  alone  together  a  long  time  that 
afternoon.  I  cleared  out,  and  took  the  Chrysler  into  Hertford. 
When  I  got  back  in  the  evening  they  were  still  there;  I  saw 
their  shadows  on  the  blind  as  I  came  up  the  drive.  They 
were  making  a  lengthy  sitting  of  it.  I  knew  Elaine  would  be 
wanting  to  see  me,  but  I  felt  I  couldn't  stand  any  more. 
All  I  wanted  was  to  be  out  of  her  way.  I  wanted  to  be  quit  of 
the  whole  business;  I  was  sick  of  it,  sick  at  heart. 

Somehow  I  could  feel  there  was  fresh  trouble  coming,  just 
as  fish  sink  to  the  bottom  and  lie  sullen  when  they  feel  there's 
thunder  in  the  air.  How  close  the  crisis  was  to  me  I  never 
guessed,  nor  its  nature.  If  I  had,  I  couldn't  have  stayed  to 
face  it.  I  should  have  left  that  accursed  house  within  the  hour. 


AGAINST    ORDERS  I39 

It  was  close  on  seven  when,  coming  downstairs,  I  saw  from 
a  landing  window  one  of  the  Brookfields  hiring  cars  sneaking 
quietly  away  from  the  front  door.  I  went  down,  wondering 
who  had  deserted  us.  I  found  instead  that  it  was  an  arrival. 

It  was  Jenny!  My  heart  leaped  at  the  sight  of  her,  and  all 
the  shadows  and  doubts  that  were  oppressing  me  lifted  like 
a  mist  when  the  sun  breaks.  She  was  standing  alone  in  the 
porch,  muffled  in  a  fur  cloak  and  a  hat  that  concealed  pretty 
well  everything  but  that  adorable  little  nose  and  mouth  of 
hers.  She  had  opened  the  door  herself  and  seemed  trying  to 
summon  up  enough  courage  to  enter  the  house.  I  hurried 
down  to  her,  calling  her  by  name,  my  hands  outstretched  to 
take  hers.  I  hardly  knew  what  I  said  or  did. 

"Are  you  surprised  to  see  me — or  glad?"  she  said  with  a 
shy  little  laugh  that  went  to  my  heart,  and  she  put  her  hands 
in  mine  as  impulsively  as  a  child.  "I  had  to  come  back — I 
simply  had  to,"  she  added  quickly,  "how  are  things  going 
here?" 

"All  quiet  on  the  front!"  I  said,  and  true  or  not  I  didn't 
care;  nothing  mattered  e;{cept  that  she  had  come  back. 
If  there  was  any  looking  after  Jenny  to  be  done  that  was 
going  to  be  my  job,  anything  was  better  than  not  knowing 
what  had  become  of  her. 

"I  know  I  oughtn't  to  have  come,  but  I'm  going  to  see 
for  myself  what's  doing  here,  and  what  is  happening  to  you," 
she  said  as  we  entered  the  hall.  Elaine  was  coming  down  the 
great  stairway  in  a  gorgeous  orange  and  black  evening  frock, 
and  Jenny  stopped  dead.  "Now  there's  going  to  be  a  row!" 

Elaine  halted  and  gave  her  a  clear,  dark  stare,  which 
Jenny  met  with  a  tilted  chin  and  the  quaintest  little  air  of 
defiance,  but  said  nothing. 

"So  here  you  are — in  spite  of  my  orders,"  said  Elaine 
sharply.  "Well,  come  upstairs.  I've  plenty  to  say  to  you, 
and  you  may  as  well  hear  it  now." 


140  BLOOD    MONEY 

"I  think  now  is  the  best  time  for  it — it's  what  I've  come 
for,"  said  Jenny,  and  they  went  up  together,  Elaine  towering 
over  her  Hke — as  it  seemed  to  me — a  policeman  with  a 
prisoner.  It  galled  me  so  much  to  see  it  that  all  my  old 
hostility  to  Elaine  returned,  but  it  didn't  damp  me  too  much 
— I  had  a  feeling  that  Elaine  was  going  to  get  as  good  as  she 
gave  and  my  spirits  were  too  high  for  damping.  I  met  my 
father  coming  out  of  the  gun-room. 

"Jenny's  back!"  I  said. 

"I  saw  her  arrive,"  he  replied,  "and  I  saw  you  greet  her, 
Ken.  I'm  glad  she's  come  back — we've  all  missed  Jenny.  The 
old  place  hasn't  been  the  same  without  her.  I'm  not  sorry 
to  see  you  cheering  up.  But  one  word  of  advice  my  dear  boy, 
take  care  what  you're  about  with  Elaine.  She  isn't  too 
pleased,  and  you  don't  know  what  you're  in  for." 

He  paused,  as  if  expecting  me  to  ask  a  question,  but  I 
left  him  and  went  to  my  room  to  change.  I  neither  under- 
stood him  nor  cared  much  what  trouble  came  along,  as  long 
as  Jenny  could  be  steered  wide  of  it.  But  when  the  girls  came 
down  to  dinner  and  we  all  got  together,  Jenny  was  keeping 
her  end  up  better  than  Elaine. 

If  there  had  been  any  sort  of  a  row  between  them,  it 
looked  to  me  as  if  Jenny  had  had  the  best  of  it.  She  had 
thrown  off  her  timidity,  she  laughed  and  sparkled  and  was 
more  delightful  even  than  I  had  ever  seen  her;  she  was 
wearing  a  simple  but  amazingly  pretty  frock  that  I  suppose 
she  had  bought  in  town,  and  she  talked  as  though  she  had 
been  up  on  a  vacation  instead  of  being  whisked  away  at  a 
moment's  notice  and  trailed  by  the  police.  I  could  not  take 
my  eyes  off  her.  My  father  was  as  charming  to  her  as  she  was 
to  him.  He  was  evidently  delighted  with  her,  and  he  kept 
the  balance  between  her  and  Elaine  with  a  tact  I  could  never 
have  approached.  But  it  wasn't  too  successful. 

Elaine  was  unusually  silent  and  reserved,  and  rather  pale. 


AGAINST    ORDERS  141 

I  had  a  sense  of  something  tense  and  electric  in  the  situation; 
there  was  thunder  brewing.  Even  under  Jenny's  gaiety  was 
a  veiled  uneasiness.  I  had  a  feeling  of  danger,  outside  and 
around  us,  enveloping  us  all. 

As  I  looked  across  the  table  at  Jenny  a  pang  of  swift, 
sharp  anxiety  shot  through  me.  She  shouldn't  have  come 
back.  If  anything  went  wrong  here  at  Stanways,  and  some 
unforeseen  tragedy  drew  her  into  its  net,  I  would  never 
forgive  myself  as  long  as  life  lasted. 

"What's  the  matter.  Ken!"  she  said  to  me,  laughing, 
"I've  never  seen  you  so  quiet." 

"I'm  quietest  when  I'm  happy,"  I  said,  "when  you  hear 
me  raising  a  riot  you'll  know  things  are  going  wrong." 

I  got  away  when  the  three  of  them  went  into  the  library 
for  coffee,  and  took  a  turn  round  outside  the  house.  It  was 
very  dark,  and  a  sprinkle  of  rain  was  falling;  it  had  been 
showery  and  close  all  day.  I  can  think  better  in  the  open  air, 
the  closeness  of  the  dining-room  and  the  sickly  scent  of 
arum  lilies  with  which  the  housekeeper  had  decorated  the 
table  stifled  me.  Then  I  came  in  and  made  for  the  gun-room, 
and  my  private  desk  in  the  recess.  The  windows  and  shutters 
were  fastened. 

I  unlocked  the  roll-top  and  snicked  down  the  concealed 
catch  of  the  little  drawer  at  the  back,  where  I  had  deposited 
the  Wesson  automatic  on  the  night  I  took  it  from  Elaine. 

The  pistol  was  gone.  __- — 


XXV 

THE   OPEN  DOOR 

Elaine's  gun,  which  she  ought  never  to  have  owned, 
had  disappeared.  I  had  not  touched  the  desk  since  the 
moment  I  put  it  there,  it  was  double-locked  and  the  key  was 
on  my  ring.  Who  had  taken  the  thing?  Elaine  certainly 
couldn't  have  known  where  it  was,  much  less  get  at  it.  I 
stared  at  the  empty  drawer,  it  seemed  to  leer  back  at  me,  as 
if  to  say,  'Now  what?' 

I  went  after  Elaine  at  once.  She  had  got  to  hear  about  this 
without  delay,  I  liked  the  look  of  it  less  than  ever.  Neither  of 
the  girls  were  in  the  library,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  my 
father.  I  guessed  what  had  happened.  Elaine  had  asserted 
her  authority  and  packed  Jenny  off  to  bed,  probably  on  the 
pretext  that  she  was  tired  after  her  journey.  That  was  all  to 
the  good;  I  wanted  to  get  Elaine  by  herself. 

There  was  a  boudoir  next  the  room  and  opening  out  of  it — 
it  had  been  fitted  up  for  her  as  a  boudoir  anyhow  and  I 
suppose  that's  a  good  enough  name  for  it;  it  was  the  best 
room  on  the  floor  and  was  Elaine's  inviolate  sanctuary; 
she  spent  most  of  her  time  there  when  she  wanted  to  be 
alone.  But  the  tinie  for  privacy  had  gone  by,  she  had  got 
to  see  me. 

I  made  for  the  door  and  was  just  about  to  rap,  when  I 
stopped  short;  both  the  girls  were  there  together,  their 
voices,  raised  in  dispute,  came  muffled  through  the  panel, 
rapidly  and  so  mingled  that  I  couldn't  sort  out  one  from 
the  other  or  tell  which  was  speaking. 

"I  tell  you  I  can't  go  on  with  it!  .  .  .  it's  more  than  I  can 
standi  .  .  ." 

"You've  got  to  .  .  .  you  gave  me  your  word  you  would  see 
it  through  .  .  .  you  have  to  stick  to  that.  ..." 


THE    OPEN    DOOR  143 

And  then  in  a  choking  tone,  with  what  sounded  Hke  a 
sob: 

"If  anything  goes  wrong  now  ...  I  think  I'd  kill  myself!" 

I  quitted  on  the  spot — hurried  away  uneasily  down  the 
passage.  What  it  was  about  I  didn't  know,  but  one  couldn't 
lurk  behind  a  door  and  listen  to  that  sort  of  thing — one 
member  of  the  household  had  been  shot  for  eavesdropping, 
and  deserved  what  he  got. 

I  had  the  wind  up.  I  didn't  feel  I  could  butt  into  Elaine's 
sanctuary  and  interrupt  the  two  of  them  at  a  moment  like 
that.  And  if  they  happened  to  open  the  door  and  discover 
me  there,  what  should  I  look  like?  I  got  out  of  it  and  went 
down  into  the  hall. 

Then  I  began  to  rage  at  myself.  What  was  this  new  trouble 
between  them?  It  hadn't  anything  to  do  with  the  pistol, 
Jenny  could  not  know  about  that,  which  was  the  foremost 
thing  in  my  mind.  I  had  had  a  very  good  reason  for  stowing 
the  thing  away  as  I  did,  but  now  that  it  had  disappeared  I 
felt  I  had  done  a  mad  thing  in  keeping  it;  I  ought  to  have 
buried  it  or  dropped  it  down  the  well. 

And  Jenny,  as  if  there  were  not  perils  enough  for  her 
already,  was  up  against  it  in  Elaine's  room,  probably  being 
bullied  out  of  her  senses.  On  top  of  that,  the  thought  of 
what  she  might  have  to  go  through  later,  maddened  me.  All 
because  I  had  been  too  much  of  a  coward  to  interfere  between 
the  two  girls. 

I  started  back  for  the  stairs,  determined  to  tackle  it,  and 
just  then  I  heard  the  door  above  open,  and  one  of  them 
coming  down.  I  halted  for  a  moment  and  drew  back  a  little 
way  to  make  sure  which  of  them  it  was.  Jenny's  slim  little 
form  appeared,  crossing  the  hall,  walking  slowly,  her  head 
bowed;  she  didn't  see  me,  and  as  the  light  fell  on  her  face  I 
saw  she  had  been  crying.  .  .  .  That  finished  me,  I  went  over 
to  her  in  three  strides  and  opened  the  gun-room  door. 


144  BLOOD    MONEY 

"Jenny,"  I  said,  "come  in  here."  She  looked  up  at  me, 
startled,  but  she  seemed  glad  of  any  refuge,  she  went  into  the 
room  and  I  faced  her. 

"There's  something  I  must  say  to  you;  it's  this.  You're 
being  made  miserable  here.  I  can't  bear  to  see  it.  I'm  not 
going  to  stand  by  and  look  on  at  it  any  longer.  You  were 
never  meant  for  unhappiness  like  this." 

"How  do  you  know  I'm  unhappy,  Ken?" 

"How  do  I  know!  Do  you  think  I  can't  see  it,  and  feel  it 
in  every  nerve — do  you  suppose  I'm  blind?" 

"Perhaps  I'm  only — frightened." 

"You're  not  frightened — I  don't  believe  you've  ever  been 
frightened,  so  much  as  wretched  and  worried,  treated  the 
way  you  are.  And  all  this  mystery  and  danger  tangling  you 
and  getting  hold  of  you;  I'm  going  to  finish  it!" 

"Ah,  I  wish  you  could!"  she  said,  and  then,  hurriedly, 
"but  it  can't  be  done;  you've  been  so  good  to  me.  Ken — to 
us  both — but  don't  you  see — "  she  hesitated,  "all  this,  is 
outside  you  .  .  .  it— it  isn't  your  affair." 

"It  is  my  affair!"  I  said. 

And  then  everj^hing  went  by  the  board.  It  was  like  no 
declaration  I  ever  heard  or  read  of;  I  suppose  these  things 
oughtn't  to  happen  like  an  explosion. 

"It's  my  affair  because  I  love  you,  there's  no  one  else  on 
earth  I  care  for  or  ever  shall;  Jenny,  darling  ...  I  want  the 
right  to  look  after  you,  and  I'm  going  to  take  it." 

"Ken!"  she  gasped,  "stop     .  .  please  .  .  .!" 

But  I  saw  the  look  in  her  eyes  that  I'd  never  dared  to 
hope  for  and  I  knew  I  was  right  at  last;  it  sent  me  off  my 
head,  and  though  she  tried  to  stop  me  I  caught  her  like  the 
rough  I  was  and  held  her  close. 

"Jenny,  beloved  .  .  .  you  do  care!  Say  you  love  me  .  .  . 
say  it!  say  it!  and  let  everything  else  go." 

And  that  is  what  she  did.  She  clung  to  me  like  a  child, 


THE    OPEN    DOOR  I45 

her  arm  about  my  neck,  and  lifted  her  face  to  mine  in 

surrender. 

"Ken!"  she  whispered,  "Ken!"  and  our  lips  met.  .  .  . 

The  delirious  happiness  of  that  moment.  I  could  have 
blessed  every  incident,  every  intruder  from  Begbie  and 
Linke  downwards,  that  led  up  to  this.  Nothing  mattered  in 
the  world,  but  the  love  that  was  between  us  two.  Certainly 
not  the  thing  that  happened  next. 

I  saw  something  that  made  me  lift  my  head  for  a  second. 
There  was  Elaine  herself,  standing  on  the  threshold. 
Motionless  as  a  statue  for  a  moment  or  two;  her  eyes  queer 
and  luminous,  the  light  shining  full  on  her  face,  her  lips 
smiling  oddly;  she  drew  back  without  a  word  and  was 
gone. 

Much  I  cared  who  saw  us,  this  was  our  affair,  not  Elaine's. 
But  Jenny  slipped  out  of  my  arms  and  swiftly  as  a  squirrel, 
backed  away  from  me.  Her  face  had  changed.  I  looked  at 
her  in  wonder  and  anxiety.  Why  should  she  care — now? 

"Ken — don't!"  she  said,  as  I  came  after  her,  "oh,  my 
dear — my  dear — I  should  never  have  let  you.  You  don't 
know  what  you've  done.  ..." 

"The  best  thing  in  my  life,"  I  said,  closing  the  door 
quickly  and  coming  back  to  her,  "about  the  only  good 
thing  so  far.  Jenny,  dearest  little  girl  on  earth,  what's  the 
matter!  Elaine  isn't  in  this.  Nothing  more  about  Elaine — 
Elaine's  fine,  but  we  don't  want  to  hear  of  her  now;  Ken  and 
Jenny;  Jenny  and  Ken — get  that  by  heart,  and  now  come  here 
and  tell  me  again.  You've  made  me  just  mad  with  happiness." 

"I  was  mad  to  let  you  .  .  .  not  now.  Ken  .  .  .  not  yet! 
Nothing  can  come  of  it!"  she  said  wildly,  "it  isn't  possible. 
You  don't  understand.  ..." 

"Now  stop  telling  me  I  don't  understand  darling;  all 
that's  done  with,"  said  I,  "I'm  going  to  understand  this 
thing  down  to  rock  bottom.  As  for  nothing  coming  of  it, 


146  BLOOD    MONEY 

you've  told  me  you  love  me  and  all's  said.  I'll  let  nothing  on 
earth  stand  between  us!" 

I  had  both  her  hands  and  was  drawing  her  to  me,  but  her 
face  was  turned  to  the  closed  door  with  the  strangest  look, 
and  I  felt  her  tremble  as  she  held  back. 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  saying!"  she  whispered 
"...  and  Elaine.  What  is  she  doing?  Ken,  I  don't  think  I've 
been  frightened  before,  but  now  ...  I'm  terrified.  There's 
something  .  .  .  something  happeniilg.  .  .  ." 

"What  can  be  happening?"  I  said,  and  tried  to  laugh.  It 
was  not  a  success.  Suddenly  the  fear  that  she  felt  passed  to 
me  and  got  hold  of  me.  I  couldn't  have  put  a  name  to  it; 
an  indefinable  dread.  There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments, 
silence  so  complete  that  without  it  I  don't  think  either  of  us 
would  have  heard  that  faint,  muffled  crack  like  the  distant 
snap  of  a  whip,  somewhere  away  off^  down  the  passage,  A 
single  shot,  the  report  of  an  automatic — the  silence  again. 
It  set  every  nerve  in  me  jangling,  and  I  saw  the  terror  in 
Jenny's  eyes. 

"Stay  here.  Don't  move — don't  leave  this  room!"  I  said, 
and  ran  out,  swinging  the  door  to. 

The  hall  was  quiet  and  empty,  the  house  seemed  deserted. 

"Elaine!"  I  cried. 

Not  a  sound.  The  noise  had  seemed  to  come  from  some- 
where to  the  right,  down  the  unlit  east  corridor.  I  ran 
along  it  and  flung  open  the  door  of  the  long  gallery.  The 
place  was  in  darkness  and  I  clicked  on  the  lights — nothing 
there.  Out  into  the  passage  and  to  the  left  again.  ...  I  saw 
a  gleam  of  light  under  the  door  of  the  morning-room, 
opened  it  and  pulled  up  short  on  the  threshold. 

An  acrid  smell  of  powder  hung  faintly  in  the  close  air, 
yet  for  a  moment  the  room  seemed  untenanted.  The  wall 
lights  on  one  side  were  turned  on;  both  windows  were 
closed,  the  large  one  and  the  little  casement  in  the  recess  by 


THE    OPEN    DOOR  I47 

the  fireplace.  Then,  in  the  shadow  cast  by  the  table  with  its 
heavy  dark  covering  Elaine  lay  at  full  length  .  .  .  the  glitter 
of  the  ring  on  the  little  hand  that  lay  outstretched,  so  white 
against  the  carpet,  and  close  by  it  a  small  black  Wesson 
pistol — her  own  pistol.  The  wound  in  her  temple  under  the 
wave  of  bright  brown  hair  .  .  .  the  red  stain  where  her  head 
rested.  .  .  . 

I  ran  to  her  and  kneeled,  raising  her  shoulders,  calHng  her 
wildly  by  name;  for  a  moment  her  eyes  opened  slightly, 
half  conscious  and  unseeing,  but  they  met  mine,  and  closed. 
Her  head  dropped  back,  she  grew  so  cold  ...  so  cold,  and 
everything  went  black  around  me. 

How  could  I  ever  have  dreamed  of  this,  or  for  an  instant 
have  thought  it  possible?  How  could  any  man  dare  let  him- 
self imagine  such  a  thing?  The  life  that  she  had  taken — I 
would  have  given  mine  ten  times  over  to  have  prevented 
this. 

I  could  even  feel  and  understand  what  she  had  done,  for 
in  the  agony  of  that  moment  of  realisation  I  had  a  blind 
impulse  to  snatch  up  that  accursed  little  black  weapon  that 
lay  ready  to  my  hand  and  turn  it  on  myself  and  finish  every- 
thing .  .  .  rather  than  meet  all  this  and  answer  for  it.  It  was 
so  easy,  and  so  quick.  But  that  wouldn't  give  her  life  .  .  . 
and  it  would  shield  no  one  but  me. 

I  rose  up  unsteadily  and  saw  the  door  was  swung  wide; 
Jenny's  hand  was  holding  it  open,  Jenny  stood  there  looking 
.  .  .  staring  past  me  at  Elaine  where  she  lay  in  the  shadow. 
I  saw  her  sway  blindly  and  had  only  time  to  catch  her  before 
she  fainted. 


XXVI 
INSPECTOR  PALKE 

I  LIFTED  her  out,  and  the  door  of  that  fearful  room 
swung  slowly  behind  me  with  a  click,  as  if  some  unseen  hand 
had  closed  it.  Jenny  lay  unconscious  in  my  arms  ...  I  carried 
her  into  the  gun-room  and  laid  her  on  the  couch,  left  her  there 
and  darted  across  to  the  library,  nearly  running  into  the  house- 
keeper, who  was  just  coming  in  through  the  service  door. 

"My  father!"  I  cried,  "where  is  he?" 

Instead  of  answering  she  turned  a  red,  shiny  face  to  me, 
panting  heavily;  the  fringe  under  her  cap  was  wet  with  rain. 
The  woman  seemed  stupefied.  My  face  and  voice  might 
well  have  frightened  her.  She  was  staring  at  my  hands. 

"His  lordship,  sir?  I  don't  think  he's  in  the  house.  He " 

"Find  him!"  I  said  savagely,  and  shutting  myself  in  the 
library,  flew  to  the  telephone.  The  emergency  call  went 
through  to  Tilden  instantly,  and  it  must  have  been  less  than 
a  minute  after  I  left  the  morning-room  when  the  reply  came 
through;  a  woman's  voice. 

"Dr.  Tilden  just  leaving  in  his  car,  sir — if  it's  urgent 
I'll  try  and  stop  him." 

"You  must  stop  him!  It's  life  and  death.  Call  him  back!" 

Tilden's  voice  reached  me.  While  I  waited  I  noticed  for 
the  first  time  that  there  was  blood  on  my  raised  hand  and  I 
shifted  the  receiver  quickly  into  the  other.  Always,  however 
hopeless  one  knows  it  to  be,  some  gleam  of  hope  awakens  at 
the  very  name  of  a  doctor;  it  is  the  healer  to  whom  one  flies 
first,  not  to  the  law.  I  blurted  half  a  dozen  words  into  the 
'phone,  such  facts  as  he  needed  and  as  I  was  able  to  give  him. 

"Get  to  your  car  and  drive  like  hell!  Yes  .  .  .  through  the 
temple  ...  I  don't  know  .  .  ."I  said  huskily.  "Here — Tilden 
— is  there  anything  I  should  do  before  you  come?" 


INSPECTOR    PALKE  I49 

"No!  The  less  you  meddle  the  better — I'll  be  there  right 
away." 

A  click  as  the  line  was  cut;  I  jerked  the  hook  and  called 
again,  sending  the  emergency  summons  through  to  the 
police.  I  knew  I  should  have  called  them  first.  What  could 
a  doctor  say,  except  that  awful,  stereotyped  phrase  they  use 
in  reports?  The  exchange  operator  seemed  asleep.  Then  a 
deep  bass  voice  rasped  in  my  ear;  the  station-sergeant. 

"Stanways — a  woman  shot.  Is  Begbie  there?  Get  him  to 
the  'phone — quick  man,  quick!"  I  cried. 

Begbie — the  last  man  on  earth  I  had  ever  wanted  to  see 
again.  And  the  summons  had  to  come  from  me.  Everything 
must  come  out — everything.  We  had  done  with  conceal- 
ment, all  of  us.  It  seemed  an  eternity  before  he  reached  the 
'phone. 

"Rolfe  speaking  .  .  .  that  you,  Begbie?  .  .  .  Come  over  at 
once  .  .  .  Miss  Corbyn  .  .  .  shot.  .  .  ." 

The  receiver  jerked  and  buzzed  in  my  ear,  maddeningly. 
I  couldn't  hear  Begbie 's  reply. 

"Don't  talk,  man — get  here!"  I  said,  "I  can't  tell  you  over 
the  wire.  Yes  .  .  .  Tilden's  on  the  way." 

"Hold  on!"  said  Begbie,  and  I  heard  him  caUing  out  a 
name  I  didn't  know,  and  muffled  sounds  of  activity  at  the 
other  end  of  the  wire.  In  a  few  moments  Begbie 's  voice 
snapped  back  at  me. 

"Stand  by — don't  leave  the  place.  Be  sure  you're  there 
when  I  come,  and  touch  nothing — get  me!" 

The  receiver  cHcked  like  a  pistol  shot,  and  I  got  on  to  my 
feet  and  went  unsteadily  out  of  the  library.  .  .  .  Exerting  all 
the  will-power  I  had  got  left,  I  managed  to  pull  myself 
together;  it  was  no  time  to  be  showing  weakness. 

I  heard  a  door  slam  somewhere,  and  a  voice  calling  out — 
I  did  not  know  whose.  But  the  hall  was  empty.  I  had  to  get 
back  to  that  room.  Back  to  the  morning-room  again.  It 


150  BLOOD    MONEY 

seemed  darker  than  ever  in  the  unlit  passage.  My  hand  shook 
as  I  hurriedly  pushed  open  the  door,  which  resisted,  for  it 
had  one  of  those  spring  cylinder  devices  fixed  on  the  inner 
side.  It  swung  to  behind  me  as  I  entered. 

And  there  I  stopped,  stupefied,  bUnking  in  the  glow  of 
the  light.  I  was  alone  in  that  room.  It  had  no  other  tenant, 
living  or  dead. 

The  body  was  gone! 

For  a  moment  or  two  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  whole 
dreadful  incident  was  an  illusion;  that  it  had  never  happened 
at  all,  that  this  was  a  nightmare.  Elaine  was  gone.  The  damp 
night  wind,  blowing  in  through  the  open  window,  roused 
me. 

But  the  relief  that  rouses  a  man  from  an  evil  dream  was 
not  mine.  For  the  pile  of  the  carpet  was  still  red  and  wet 
where  her  head  had  lain;  near  by,  just  where  it  had  been  left, 
was  the  Wesson — Elaine's  pistol — the  same  that  for  a  week 
past  had  been  locked  in  my  desk,  with  the  lightish  scratch 
along  the  dark  iron  of  the  butt. 

The  window,  that  had  been  shut  when  I  first  came  in,  was 
wide  open;  the  sash  was  up  as  high  as  it  would  go.  A  fight 
rain  was  beating  in,  the  floor  was  flecked  with  stains  of  mud 
and  gravel,  I  could  feel  the  little  stones  gritting  under  my 
feet  as  I  stood. 

I  ran  to  the  window  and  vaulted  out.  Whoever  had  been 
into  that  room  since  I  left,  I  might  be  hard  on  their  heels  yet. 
What  devil's  work  they  were  after  I  couldn't  guess,  nor  was 
there  time  for  thought. 

I  stared  through  the  darkness,  listening  and  peering,  and 
wondered  for  a  moment  if  I  were  going  insane,  so  ghastly 
and  unreal  did  it  all  seem.  There  was  not  a  sound  but  the 
soft  whisper  of  the  rain. 

Then,  as  my  eyes  focussed  to  the  gloom,  I  saw  something 


INSPECTOR    PALKE  I5I 

like  a  dim  shape,  moving  slowly  and  clumsily,  out  against  the 
sky-line  in  the  park,  beyond  the  garden  rails.  I  made  for  it 
as  hard  as  I  could  pelt,  vaulting  the  fence  and  running  up 
the  slope  towards  it.  Away  it  went  at  a  quickened  pace,  and 
I  raised  a  yell  and  was  after  it  in  full  pursuit,  crazy  to  get  to 
grips  with  something;  till  I  found  it  out-distancing  me,  heard 
a  snort  and  a  beating  of  hoofs — I  pulled  up  short,  cursing 
myself  for  a  fool.  I  had  been  chasing  one  of  the  park  ponies. 

Away  ahead  of  me  to  the  left,  three  hundred  yards 
distant  in  a  line  from  the  morning-room  window,  was  a 
dark  belt  of  firs  on  the  edge  of  the  park,  bordering  a  narrow 
lane  that  led  away  to  the  main  road.  Was  it  fancy,  or  did  I 
see  a  spark  of  light  moving  there?  Off  I  went  again.  It  would 
be  just  the  place  for  anyone  to  conceal  a  car,  if  they  were 
reconnoitring  the  east  side  of  Stanways  by  night  and  expec- 
ting to  make  a  getaway  in  a  hurry  if  necessary. 

If  so,  they  had  made  it,  and  probably  some  time  before  I 
quitted  the  house  at  all,  for  when  I  reached  the  belt  there 
was  nothing.  But  I  had  a  petrol  pipe-lighter  with  me,  and 
by  the  dim  flare  it  gave  I  searched  over  the  ground,  and  sure 
enough  right  beside  me  on  the  edge  of  the  belt  by  the  lane 
were  the  fresh  marks  of  tyres  printed  deep,  where  a  heavy 
car  had  rested,  and  the  spirts  of  soil  thrown  up  when  she 
had  started  away.  The  tracks  led  off  down  the  lane,  the  lighter 
blew  out,  and  I  could  not  follow  them  further. 

I  ran  to  the  end  of  the  belt  and  listened.  Certainly  I  could 
hear  a  car;  a  very  low,  deep,  distant  hum.  But  it  was  some- 
where away  on  the  other  side  of  Stanways,  it  was  receding 
and  fading,  evidently  a  high-power  machine  going  at  speed. 

Straight  ahead,  in  the  right  direction  for  a  car  making 
away  from  the  place  where  I  stood,  the  glow  of  powerful 
headlights  were  visible,  but  fully  a  mile  off  and  approaching 
Stanways,  not  leaving  it.  Beyond  this  the  distant  glare  of 
a  second  pair  of  lights;  two  cars,  coming  my  way  as  hard 


152  BLOOD    MONEY 

as  they  could  bum  the  ground.  Tilden  and  the  poHce,  of 
course.  .  .  . 

Useless,  my  groping  here  in  the  dark.  I  hurried  back  to 
the  house  to  face  the  thing  as  best  I  might,  my  temples 
throbbing  and  my  throat  dry  and  constricted.  What  had  the 
intruder  done — The  Unknown,  who  had  butted  into  my 
trouble — and  why?  How  would  it  profit  them?  No  one  who 
was  sane  would  take  any  such  risk,  except  for  reasons  that 
were  vital  and  deadly. 

I  reached  the  open  window  again,  having  senses  enough 
left  to  skirt  round  it  avoiding  any  tracks  there  might  be,  and 
started  to  climb  in  at  the  side.  The  Wesson  pistol  on  the 
carpet  was  the  first  thing  that  caught  my  eye;  an  impulse 
seized  me,  an  overpowering  temptation  to  snatch  the  thing 
up  and  make  away  with  it — to  be  rid  of  it.  I  stamped  that 
idea  down.  No  more  concealment.  The  truth 

I  had  got  to  leave  that  room  untouched.  I  dropped  back 
off  the  sill  and  went  in  through  the  side  door  to  the  gun-room. 
Jenny,  white  and  dishevelled,  was  on  the  sofa.  Her  senses 
were  returning;  she  looked  at  me  blankly  and  tried  to  raise 
herself.  I  dropped  on  my  knees  beside  her  and  took  her  by 
the  hands. 

"Just  lie  there,  dear — don't  move.  It's  coming  right — it's 
not  so  bad."  I  hardly  knew  what  I  said.  "Not  near  so  bad." 

"Ken  .  .  .  is  she  .  .  .  ?" 

"She's  gone — gone  clear  away,"  I  said  quickly,  "that's  all 
I  know." 

I  heard  her  breath  catch,  and  her  head  sank  back.  I 
cursed  myself  for  a  fool;  I  had  tried  to  make  things  better, 
to  quiet  her  any  way  I  could,  and  indeed  for  a  moment  I 
thought  I  saw  relief  in  her  eyes,  and  hope.  Then  she 
shivered  and  collapsed;  the  senses  went  out  of  her  like  the 
puff  of  a  candle  .  .  .  she  had  been  through  enough  to  break 
a  man  down,  let  alone  a  girl.  The  whiteness  of  her  face 


INSPECTOR    PALKE  153 

terrified  me;  I  laid  her  back  on  the  cushions  and  sprang  to 
my  feet  as  I  heard  the  squeal  of  brakes  outside  and  the  sound 
of  tyres  grinding  along  the  gravel  as  a  car  pulled  up  hurriedly. 

I  was  out  through  the  hall  and  into  the  porch  as  quick  as 
I  ever  moved  yet,  and  caught  Dr.  Tilden  with  his  hand 
on  the  bell  and  the  other  gripping  a  little  black  bag. 

"This  way,"  I  said,  pulling  him  in,  "your  patient's  Miss 
Craddock." 

"  Craddock?"  he  exclaimed,  "you  told  me  Miss  Corbyn." 

I  halted  him  at  the  gun-room  door. 

"Listen,  Tilden,  before  you  go  in.  I  found  Miss  Corbyn  . . . 
shot.  Miss  Craddock  came  in — she  saw  what  had  happened — 
I  can't  explain  to  you  now,  but  she's  completely  collapsed.  I 
carried  her  into  this  room  and  I  rang  you.  When  I  got  back 
Miss  Corbyn  was  gone  .  .  .  someone  had  been  into  the  room 
where  she  lay.  Don't  interrupt  me,  man — I'm  not  raving, 
I'm  telling  you  facts.  It  was  her  I  called  you  to  see,  and  she's 
gone.  Now  see  to  Miss  Craddock;  she's  in  a  fearful  state." 

Tilden  looked  at  me  sideways  as  I  turned  the  door  handle. 

"A  damned  queer  story,  Rolfe,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  here 
professionally,  take  me  to  my  patient.  Police  rung  yet?" 

"Expecting  them  here  every  moment." 

We  found  poor  little  Jenny  lying  limp  as  a  rag  on  the  sofa; 
she  didn't  stir  when  we  entered,  her  eyes  were  closed,  she 
scarcely  seemed  to  be  breathing.  Tilden  bent  over  her, 
looked  at  her  quickly;  his  finger  was  on  her  pulse.  ...  I 
watched  his  face,  and  was  sorry  I  had  been  rough  with  him. 
The  comfort  a  doctor  is,  at  such  a  time.  .  .  . 

"Shock,"  he  said.  "She's  all  in.  Yes — better  later,  got  to 
be  kept  very  quiet  awhile.  Want  her  out  of  this  at  once — 
where 's  her  room?" 

I  lifted  her  in  my  arms  and  ran  upstairs  with  her.  Jenny's 
was  the  small  spare  room  on  the  near  side  of  Elaine's.  The 
relief  it  was,  to  get  her  into  that  little  refuge  as  quickly 


154  BLOODMONEY 

as  possible  and  lay  her  at  length  on  the  eiderdown;  her  face 
was  whiter  than  the  pillow. 

"Hefty  big  lout  you  are,  Rolfe,"  said  Tilden,  opening  his 
bag,  "sooner  she's  in  bed  the  better-  -send  a  woman  up  here 
to  attend  to  her." 

"Tilden,  you  won't  let  her  talk  about  things — you  won't 
ask  her  questions — to-night?"  I  said  as  I  made  for  the  door. 

"Of  course  not,  you  fool!"  replied  Tilden.  I  hurried  down- 
stairs and  nearly  ran  into  Mrs.  Jessop  at  the  foot,  wearing  a 
soaked  hat  and  a  steaming  raincoat. 

"Go  up  to  Miss  Craddock's  room,"  I  said,  "Dr.  Tilden's 
there — take  his  orders." 

"I  was  going  to  tell  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Jessop,  who  for  the 
first  time  in  my  experience  of  her  was  looking  pallid  and 
flustered,  "that  his  lordship " 

"Go!"  I  said,  "upstairs  with  you,"  and  threw  both  wings 
of  the  front  door  open.  The  headlights  of  a  big  car  were 
sweeping  up  the  drive;  it  pulled  up  with  a  jerk  and  'the  burly 
uniformed  figyre  of  Inspector  Begbie  shot  out,  followed  by  a 
man  I  had  never  seen  before,  in  a  long  tweed  overcoat.  The 
pair  of  them  stepped  quickly  through  into  the  hall. 

"  Take  us  to  the  room,  Rolfe,"  said  Begbie  abruptly. 
"This,"  he  added,  "is  Inspector  Palke,  C.I.D. — from  the 
Yard." 

"Engaged  in  the  Linke  case — with  the  aid  of  my  good 
friend.  Inspector  Begbie,"  said  the  other,  with  a  little  bow 
to  me,  and  a  rather  attractive  smile.  He  was  a  man  of  about 
fifty-five,  long  and  gaunt,  a  head  taller  than  Begbie,  with 
short  hair,  iron-grey  at  the  temples,  and  thoughtful  pene- 
trating eyes.  His  voice  was  low-pitched  and  gentle.  He 
looked  at  me  with  the  air  of  a  collector  who  finds  a  rare  and 
unusual  specimen  that  he  has  long  been  seeking.  His  eyes 
travelled  over  me  and  dwelled  for  a  moment  on  my  right  hand, 
flecked  with  that  dry  red  stain. 


XXVII 
THE  BULLET 

I  don't  know  whether  it  was  fear  that  I  felt;  it  was 
rather  a  sort  of  paralysis,  that  held  me  dumb  before  the  two 
men.  While  I  was  looking  after  Jenny  and  getting  her  out  of 
the  way  I  could  think  of  nothing  else  .  .  .  the  rest  of  it  had 
been  blotted  out  and  thrust  into  the  background  of  whatever 
intelligence  I've  got;  now  it  all  came  back  like  a  flood  tide — 
the  thing  I  had  to  face  and  account  for. 

Inspector  Palke  seemed  in  no  hurry.  Begbie's  face  was 
grim  and  impatient,  but  they  both  peered  at  me  in  silence, 
waiting  for  me  to  speak.  I  just  beckoned  to  them  and  led  the 
way  to  the  morning-room. 

"Gone!"  I  said.  "Taken  away.  She  lay — there.  I  was  in  the 
gun-room  .  .  .  heard  a  shot  ...  I  thought  it  was  a  shot  ...  it 
couldn't  have  been  more  than  a  minute  or  two  before  I  got 
here.  Miss  Corbyn  lay  on  the  floor,  unconscious,  wounded 
in  the  forehead  .  .  .  the  right  temple.  This  is  where  she 
lay  .  .  .  her  head  here  .  .  .  the  pistol  close  to  her — it  hasn't 
been  moved.  No  one  else  in  the  room.  The  window — 
shutr 

"I  believed  .  .  .  she  was  dying,  her  eyes  opened  slightly 
when  I  raised  her,  she  couldn't  speak.  I  got  to  the  'phone  in 
the  library,  rang  Dr.  Tilden,  and  the  police.  I  returned  here 
as  quickly  as  I  could — not  ten  minutes  later,  just  the  time  it 
took  to  ring  you.  She  was  gone  . . .  and  the  window  wide  open, 
as  it  is  now." 

"Stop  a  moment,  Mr.  Rolfe,"  said  Begbie,  peering  round 
him  in  that  slow,  deliberate  way  of  his,  "haven't  you  left 
something  out?  Who  else  has  been  in  this  room,  besides  you 
— before  you  got  back,  I  mean?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Craddock,  she  came  in  after  I  did.  When  she 


156  BLOOD    MONEY 

saw  what  had  happened  she  fainted  ...  I  carried  her  out,  and 
got  to  the  'phone;  Tilden's  here,  he's  with  her  now.  I  was 
telHng  you  when  I  found — the  body  gone  .  .  .  and  all  that 
gravel  on  the  carpet,  I  went  out  through  the  window  and 
over  the  lawn  fence — I  couldn't  see  or  hear  a  thing,  but  out 
in  that  fir  belt  by  the  lane  there  are  fresh  tyre  marks,  a  car 
has  stood  there — and  I  heard  a  car  moving  on  the  far  side  of 
the  park " 

"You  have  been  very  active,  Mr,  Rolfe,"  said  Palke.  He 
had  a  quick,  bird-like  trick  of  shifting  his  gaze  from  one  object 
to  another  as  he  drifted  rapidly  round  the  room;  at  the 
moment  he  had  his  back  to  me  and  was  facing  the  mantel- 
piece; "yes,  evidently  a  man  of  action.  I  suppose  you  can't 
put  a  time  to  all  this — it  didn't  occur  to  you  to  look  at  the 
clock?" 

"No!" 

"It  might  have  made  some  difference  to  you  if  you  had," 
said  Palke,  and  turning  away  he  dropped  on  one  knee  beside 
the  pistol,  took  a  scrap  of  chalk  from  his  pocket  and  traced 
an  outline  round  it  on  the  carpet,  draped  a  silk  handkerchief 
round  his  hand  and  picked  up  the  Wesson,  holding  it 
gingerly  by  the  barrel,  and  examined  it.  I  could  hardly  bring 
myself  to  look  at  him  while  he  did  so,  the  very  sight  of  the 
little  gun  sickened  me,  but  he  hardly  seemed  to  spend  more 
than  a  moment  over  it;  he  laid  it  down  again  within  the 
chalked  outline  on  the  floor,  stepped  over  to  the  door,  locked 
it  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"Among  your  many  activities,  Mr.  Rolfe,  you  hustled  in 
and  out  again  through  that  window — right  through  the 
middle  and  over  the  top  of  everything  outside,  I  suppose?" 
he  said  to  me  as  he  made  for  the  open  sash. 

"No — I  jumped  out  at  the  side  as  it  happens — and  I  came 
back  by  way  of  the  side  door." 

"You  have  flashes  of  intelligence  after  all,"  said  Palke, 


THE    BULLET  157 

climbing  quickly  out  on  to  the  gravel  path.  "Just  stay  right 
where  you  are,  please.  Come  on,  Begbie." 

I  stayed  where  I  was.  I  saw  the  rays  from  a  couple  of 
electric  torches  playing  rapidly  over  the  ground  and  across 
the  sodden  lawn.  One  of  the  little  circles  of  light  stayed  close 
at  hand,  moving  to  and  fro;  searching  for  footprints,  of  course 
— the  other  travelled  a  long  way  out,  beyond  the  garden  and 
into  the  park.  Doubtless  the  pair  were  reading  from  the  wet 
ground  messages  that  were  hidden  from  me. 

I  was  interrupted  by  the  sudden  return  of  Inspector 
Palke,  who  swung  his  gaunt  body  and  long  legs  in  through 
the  window,  darted  to  the  door,  and  unlocked  it  in  a  twink- 
ling. I  never  saw  such  a  change  in  a  man.  Those  meditative 
eyes  of  his  shone  like  the  eyes  of  a  cat  that  sees  the  rat's 
whiskers  begin  to  emerge  from  the  watched  hole.  He  caught 
me  by  the  arm. 

"Your  'phone — get  me  to  it  quick!"  he  said. 

I  hurried  out  with  him  across  the  hall  and  into  the  library; 
as  we  entered  the  telephone  on  my  father's  writing-table 
began  to  buzz,  as  'phones  generally  do  when  you  want  to 
send  an  urgent  call  yourself.  He  snatched  the  receiver. 

"Stanways  Hall — ^who's  speaking?"  he  said  abruptly.  I 
was  standing  by,  but  he  lowered  the  receiver  for  a  moment, 
covering  the  mouthpiece  with  his  hand,  and  turned  to  me. 

"Get  out  of  here  please — go  back  to  Begbie.  Answer  what 
questions  he  asks  you  till  I  come.  And,  Mr.  Rolfe,"  he  added 
with  a  grim  smile  as  I  reached  the  door,  "take  a  word  of  advice 
— don't  keep  any  more  cards  up  your  sleeve — ^it's  too  late 
for  secrecy." 

I  found  Begbie  in  the  morning-room,  busy  about  some- 
thing by  the  fireplace.  He  locked  the  door  again  as  soon  as  I 
was  inside. 

"We  want  no  interruptions  here,"  he  said;  "now,  Mr. 
Rolfe — about  this  pistol.  Before  we  start,  do  you  understand 


•158  BLOOD    MONEY 

that  it's  no  use  trying  to  keep  anything  back,  for  you'll  only 
waste  time?" 

"I'm  here  to  tell  you  every  last  thing  I  know." 

"Have  you  seen  that  pistol  before?" 

"I've  had  it  in  my  possession  a  week.  It  was  locked  in  my 
desk;  I  looked  for  it  this  evening,  and  missed  it " 

"Whose  is  it?" 

"Miss  Corbyn's." 

"You're  sure  of  that?  Can  you  recognise  it  as  hers?" 

"Yes." 

"How  did  you  come  by  it?" 

"I  took  it  away  from  her — six  days  ago.     I " 

"All  right — that's  all  I  want  to  know  about  the  gun.  When 
did  you  last  see  Miss  Corby n,  before  this  thing  happened?" 

"In  the  gun-room,  up  the  passage.  Almost  immediately 
before  ...  a  few  minutes " 

"Were  you  alone?" 

"Miss  Craddock  was  with  me.  Miss  Corby n  looked  in  .  .  . 
and  went  out  again  ..." 

"Went  out  again?  What  did  she  come  for?  Did  she  say 
anything  to  you?" 

He  watched  me  narrowly  as  he  spoke. 

"She  said  .  .  .  nothing.  Went  out,  and  a  minute  or  two 
later " 

"Leaving  you  alone  with  Miss  Craddock?"  interrupted 
Begbie. 

I  felt  that  if  this  man  went  on  questioning  me  I  should  get 
my  hands  on  his  thick  neck  and  strangle  him.  I  couldn't  keep 
my  voice  steady  as  I  answered. 

"Yes.  I  heard  a  shot ...  at  least  I  thought  it  sounded  like 
a  shot . . .  traced  it  to  this  room,  and  I  found " 

I  told  him  what  I  found.  He  didn't  spare  me  anything. 

There  is  a  Chinese  torture  called  the  'death  by  a  thousand 
cuts.*  I  would  give  myself  up  to  the  executioner  rather  than 


THE    BULLET  I59 

go  through  that  time  again.  And  he  asked  me  about  the 
wound. 

"Don't  you  see  how  vital  this  is,  Mr.  Rolfe,"  he  persisted, 
"can't  you  say  whether  she  was  dead  or  Uving  when  you  left 
her?  You  were  the  first  to  find  her  and  the  last  to  see  her. 
From  what  you  actually  saw,  can  you  form  any  opinion  how, 
and  from  what  direction,  that  shot  was  fired?" 

"Good  heavens,  man,  why  ask  me  that.  Can't  you  see  for 
yourself  how  it  was?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I  can,  but  I  deal  in  facts,  not  guesses — I 
must  have  what  help  I  can  get  from  you." 

"You  are  very  upset,  which  is  natural;  you  have  had  the 
shock  of  a  lifetime,  but  please  pull  yourself  together.  You 
tell  me  that  the  body — that  Miss  Corbyn  lay  here,  her  right 
hand  outstretched,  close  by  the  pistol.  But  that  does  not  show 
where  she  was  standing  before  she  fell;  she  must  have  been 
rather  more  to  the  left,  which  would  account  for  the 
deflexion  of  the  shot.  Do  you  see  this?" 

He  pointed  to  the  clock  on  the  mantel;  it  had  a  heavy 
marble  base  and  a  black  dial  with  luminous  figures.  Not  until 
now  did  I  realise  that  it  was  not  going;  that  it's  hearty 
sonorous  tick  was  silent.  Begbie's  stubby  finger  pointed  to  a 
small  ragged  hole  at  the  base  of  the  dial  where  the  figure  VI 
should  have  been.  It  was  not  very  noticeable  on  the  black 
enamel  of  the  face  unless  one  looked  close.  The  hands  of  the 
clock  were  undamaged  and  marked  the  time  as  thirteen 
minutes  past  nine. 

"The  bullet  that  did  the  mischief,"  said  Begbie,  "it 
finished  here.  These  automatics  have  great  penetration  at 
short  range."  He  swung  the  clock  round  and  opened  the 
back,  showing  me  the  wrecked  works,  where  a , distorted 
little  33  bullet  had  churned  up  the  brass  cog-wheels  and 
lodged  in  the  mainspring.  "That's  clear  enough.  Are  you 
clear  that  you  only  heard  one  shot?" 


l6o  BLOOD    MONEY 

"Of  course — one  shot." 

"There's  no  'of  course'  about  it — if  it's  sure  this  was  the 
only  one,  then  I've  got  the  direction  and  can  fix  where  she 
was  standing  .  .  .  and  that's  worth  all  your  evidence  put 
together." 

"Then  for  pity's  sake  let  me  alone!"  I  said.  "How  can  it 
matter  .  .  .  where  she  was  when  she  fired " 

Begbie  stared  at  me  in  that  sardonic  way  of  his,  with  a 
touch  of  surprise.  His  face  seemed  to  be  looming  at  me  out 
of  a  red  mist. 

"When  she  fired?"  he  said.  "What's  the  matter  with  you, 
Mr.  Rolfe?  .  .  .  No — no,"  he  continued  quickly,  "I  see — I 
see.  Natural  you  should  think  it  was  that,  the  way  you  found 
things  here,  and  it  may  have  been  intended  that  you  should. 
But  surely  you  haven't  still  got  that  idea  in  your  head — see 
here!" 

He  took  up  the  Wesson  by  its  barrel  and  opened  the  butt, 
taking  out  the  metal  charger  clip.  All  the  nine  shells  in  it 
were  intact,  the  nickel  bullets  in  an  even  row,  and  the  light 
glinted  along  the  clean  rifling  of  the  barrel  through  the  open 
breech.  The  Wesson — Elaine's  little  gun — had  not  been 
fired  at  all. 

An  overpowering  sense  of  relief  came  over  me  as  I  looked 
at  the  thing.  The  blood  rushed  to  my  face  as  I  realised  what  a 
monumental  fool  I  had  been — and  yet  what  else  could  I 
possibly  have  thought? 

"Mr.  Rolfe,"  said  Begbie,  "I'd  have  shown  you  earlier,  but 
it  never  occurred  to  me  you  weren't  on  to  it.  Miss  Corbyn, 
finding  herself  suddenly  in  danger,  tried  to  defend  herself 
with  this  automatic,  and  was  not  quick  enough.  She  was  shot 
from  outside  that  window,  although  you  say  you  found  it 
closed  when  you  came  in.  Who  shot  her  and  how  was  she 
removed? — ^those  are  the  questions  we're  out  to  solve  now." 

"I  think  we  shall  get  that  far,"  broke  in  Inspector  Palke; 


THE    BULLET  l6l 

his  face  appeared  for  a  moment  at  the  open  window. 
"Things  are  a  little  better  than  I  looked  for.  Unlock  the  door 
Begbie,  and  I'll  come  round.  I  don't  want  to  make  this  place 
in  a  worse  mess  than  it  is." 

I  was  perfectly  dazed  with  conflicting  emotions,  trying  to 
collect  my  thoughts  and  get  a  grip  of  things  when  Palke  came 
in.  He  glanced  at  me,  laid  a  sympathetic  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
and  pressed  me  back  into  a  chair. 

"A  bad  time  for  you,  Mr.  Rolfe.  Sit  there  a  minute  while 
I  talk  to  Begbie — I  shall  want  you  again." 

The  two  of  them  retired  to  the  other  end  of  the  room  by 
the  fireplace  and  conferred  in  undertones;  I  suppose  Begbie 
was  telling  his  colleague  briefly  what  I  had  said,  I  saw  Palke 
glance  back  at  me  once  or  twice;  he  said  something  to  Begbie 
that  I  couldn't  catch,  but  when  he  came  across  to  me  again 
my  spirits  had  risen  like  mercury.  The  relief  and  reaction 
from  that  black  horror  that  had  oppressed  me  were  intense; 
I  could  have  gripped  Begbie  by  the  hand  and  blessed  him. 
Though  I  couldn't  see  a  yard  further  through  the  cloud  of 
mystery  and  tragedy  that  was  its  climax  I  felt  things  were  not 
so  bad  and  there  was  hope  . . .  Palke  had  said  so,  and  the  man 
had  got  my  confidence  from  the  start. 

"Well,  we've  got  things  going.  And  I'll  light  up  this  case 
for  you  as  far  as  I  can  and  as  briefly,  for  I  want  you  to 
understand  it,  Mr.  Rolfe,  and  I  shall  require  your  help,"  he 
said,  "but  first  you've  got  to  come  across  with  your  story, 
right  up  to  to-night — and  don't  keep  anything  back.  Quick 
as  you  can!" 

I  was  long  past  keeping  anything  back.  I  started  to  tell  him 
of  the  drive  from  Euston  and  the  crash  on  the  Cranwell  Road, 
but  he  broke  in 

"We  know  as  much  as  we  need  to  about  that,"  he  said 
shortly,  "what  trouble  have  you  had  here  since  then?" 

I  told  him  of  the  mysterious  skulker  who  had  stalked  the 


l62  BLOOD    MONEY 

house  and  peered  in  through  the  gun-room  window,  and  all 
that  followed  afterwards.  He  listened  intently,  making  no 
comment. 

"Would  you  know  that  man  again  if  you  saw  him?"  he 
asked  as  I  finished. 

"Yes,  I  would — though  it  was  a  very  brief  glimpse  I  got. 
Certainly  I  never  saw  him  before  nor  since." 

"You  mean  you  think  you've  never  seen  him  before  or 
since,"  replied  Palke.  "All  right — that'll  do  for  the  present. 
You  may  see  him  again  I  hope.  Now  please  follow  this.  Come 
to  the  window. 

"You  found  it  closed.  But  it  must  either  have  been  open 
when  Miss  Corbyn  first  entered  the  room  or — very  possibly 
— she  opened  it  herself.  All  that  is  sure  is  that  the  shot  was 
fired  at  her  from  outside,  and  whoever  fired  it  was  close 
up  against  the  open  window  with  pistol  hand  extending 
through  into  the  room;  you  say  you  noticed  the  smell  of 
powder  smoke  still  hanging,  when  you  entered.  He  meant 
making  a  certainty  of  that  shot. 

"Miss  Corbyn  was  standing  well  inside  the  room.  She  saw 
her  assailant,  but  she  couldn't  have  stood  much  chance  of 
defence  or  escape.  Here  is  where  he  stood  when  he  fired." 

Between  the  window  and  the  gravel  path  was  a  flower- 
border  three  feet  wide,  bare  winter  soil  with  a  few  trampled 
plants  and  moist  with  rain.  Palke  leaned  over  the  sill  and 
flashed  his  torch  on  the  ground  close  to  our  right-hand  side 
of  the  window.  A  single  footprint  was  visible  there,  the  mark 
of  a  heavy  short  boot,  rather  deeply  impressed,  its  outline 
already  melting  in  the  wet,  about  eighteen  inches  from  the 
wall. 

"See  that?"  said  Palke,  "his  left  foot  forward,  his  weight 
thrown  upon  it  pressing  the  fore  part  of  the  boot  hard  down 
— heel  impression  slight — right  foot  was  back  on  the  gravel. 
He  was  crouching  slightly  when  he  fired,  bullet  did  its  work. 


THE    BULLET  163 

then  deflected — angle  uncertain — and  hit  the  clock.  Miss 
Corbyn  fell,  and  didn't  move  again.  All  that  took  barely  a 
few  seconds.  From  the  direction,  it's  pretty  sure  that  from 
this  side  the  shot  was  fired — and  there  stood  your  gunman." 

"Then  he — I  say  'he,'  but  that  man  wasn't  alone — pulled 
the  window-sash  down  before  quitting.  Likely  he  may  have 
heard  you  coming;  you  seem  to  have  been  fairly  quick  on  the 
job.  And  off  with  him  into  the  night  and  the  rain." 

"You  say  there  was  more  than  one?" 

"Look,"  said  Palke.  "Here  was  the  other."  He  passed 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  window  and  flashed  his  torch  over 
the  border  again.  Close  to  the  house,  a  little  back  from  the 
window's  edge  as  if  someone  had  crouched  there  on  the 
watch,  was  a  trample  of  confused  footmarks  huddled  together, 
only  two  of  them  standing  out  fairly  clear.  I  peered  down  at 
them  and  uttered  an  exclamation.  They  were  much  smaller 
than  the  solitary  print  on  the  farther  side,  they  had  been 
made  by  thickish  walking  shoes,  rounded  at  the  toes;  the 
size  couldn't  have  been  more  than  fives. 

"Those  are  a  woman's  footprints!" 

Palke  nodded. 

"Strange,  isn't  it?  A  woman  stood  there.  And  she  was 
there  before  you  arrived.  What  woman,  Mr.  Rolfe?" 


XXVIII 

THE  THREE  TRAILS 

Crusoe's  discovery  of  the  footprint  in  the  sand  couldn't 
have  shaken  him  more  than  those  oozey  shoe-marks  affected 
me.  They  were  not  Elaine's,  she  had  worn  high-heeled 
evening  shoes,  nowhere  near  that  size. 

"Certainly  not  Miss  Corbyn,"  said  Palke.  "But  who?  I  see 
that  beats  you.  It  beats  Inspector  Begbie.  But  the  thing's 
boiHng  itself  down.  There  was  a  woman  in  Black  Spinney  on 
the  night  your  man  Linke  came  by  his  end.  That's  news  to 
you?  It  was  news  to  me  till  I  came  into  this  case  recently. 
Begbie  established  that  fact,  and  very  well  he  did  it.  Same 
woman,  Begbie?" 

"Very  little  to  swear  by,  then  or  now,"  returned  Begbie 
gloomily.  "Don't  know  who  the  woman  was." 

"Woman — timid ,  tender  woman — sometimes  she 's  tougher 
than  the  male,  and  then  she  gives  a  lot  of  trouble.  I've  been 
beaten  by  women  several  times  in  my  service,  for  a  while — 
I  got  them  all  in  the  end.  I  think  we  might  get  this 
one. 

"It's  fairly  certain  she  must  have  been  there  when  the 
shot  was  fired.  It  came  from  the  left  side;  the  direction  of  it 
shows  us  that.  She  was  over  here  to  the  right  of  the  window, 
crouching  against  the  wall.  It  was  the  man  who  did  the  job. 
There  they  were,  the  pair  of  them.  Number  One  to  the  left 
— the  man.  Number  Two  to  the  right — the  woman.  As  soon 
as  the  shot  was  fired,  and  the  window  pulled  down,  they 
made  their  getaway." 

"The  object  of  the  man  who  fired  that  shot  was  of  course 
plain  murder;  Miss  Corbyn  was  a  wealthy  woman,  there  is 
someone  or  it  may  be  several  who  would  benefit  by  her  death. 
Why  or  how  is  uncertain,  we  should  know  that  pretty  soon; 


THE    THREE    TRAILS  165 

I  think  we  shall  get  on  to  it  to-night.  They  were  away,  of 
course,  before  you  arrived." 

"But  they  came  back!" 

Palke  shook  his  head. 

"No.  Now  we  come  to  Number  Three.  Neither  of  that 
pair  ever  came  into  the  room.  Look  here." 

He  pointed  to  the  muddy  tracks  on  the  carpet;  I  hadn't 
paid  close  attention  to  them  till  then.  Those  closest  the  win- 
dow were  the  most  clearly  marked,  they  were  quite  different 
to  the  tracks  we  had  been  inspecting  outside.  Their  owner 
had  worn  long  and  rather  narrow  boots — or  maybe  shoes — 
somewhat  pointed. 

"And  here,"  said  Palke,  flashing  his  torch  outside. 

In  the  centre  of  the  flower-bed,  clear  of  the  other  tracks 
at  the  sides,  one  could  see  where  those  narrow  boots  had 
come  in  and  gone  out  again,  over  the  window-sill.  And  on 
their  outward  journey  they  were  more  deeply  printed  in  the 
soft  soil,  the  heels  jammed  down,  as  if  their  owner  had 
carried  a  heavy  weight  and  moved  quickly.  Strange  how 
easily  one  read  the  story  when  Palke  interpreted  it;  I  doubt  I 
should  have  looked  a  long  time  at  that  jumble  of  muddy 
prints  before  sorting  them  out,  and  then  probably  got  it 
wrong  end  first. 

"You  see?  Here  came  Number  Three.  While  you  were 
away  telephoning — for  you  left  her  there  with  the  pistol 
lying  beside  her — Number  Three  got  in  and  was  quick 
about  the  job,  finished  it,  carried  Miss  Corbyn  out — carried 
her  out!  And  took  her — where?  Got  clear  away  with  his 
burden,  before  ever  you  turned  up  again,  or  the  police 
arrived.  A  fairly  hefty  fellow;  for  it  was  done  single-handed. 
Yes,  that  man  was  quick!" 

"Then  there  were  three  in  the  gang!" 

"//  he  was  one  of  them — working  with  them.  But  was  he? 
Or  was  he — more  likely  still — playing  for  his  own  hand? 


l66  BLOOD    MONEY 

Someone  whose  interest  it  was  that  nobody  should  know 
until  he  chose,  whether  Elaine  Corby n  was  dead  or  living. 
And  a  mighty  strong  interest  it  must  have  been.  A  man 
would  have  to  have  a  powerful  motive,  to  meddle  like  that 
in  a  job  that  might  hang  him.  Perhaps,  Mr.  Rolfe,  a  bigger 
crook  than  either  of  them.  Who  was  he?" 

Palke  looked  at  me  with  a  queer,  suggestive  gleam  in  those 
not  unfriendly  grey  eyes  of  his,  as  though  he  were  reckoning 
me  up;  judging  how  much,  if  anything,  I  knew  or  guessed. 

"Why  ask  me!  I  can  no  more  see  through  his  motive,  nor 
guess  who  he  was,  than  the  dead." 

"I  see  that  you  don't,  Mr.  Rolfe.  Yes,  he's  an  elusive 
gentleman,  this,"  said  Palke  quietly,  "  he's  beaten  the  lot 
of  us!" 

"There's  hope  then — it  can't  be  as  bad  as  we  thought  or 
he  would  never  have  meddled!"  I  cried;  "that's  as  plain  as 
sunlight." 

Palke  was  silent  a  moment. 

"I  wish  it  were  as  plain  as  you  think,"  he  said,  "just  come 
outside  a  minute.  We'll  take  one  last  scout  round  to  see  if 
there's  anything  I've  overlooked." 

I  swung  myself  out  through  the  window  and  lit  clear  of 
the  border  with  my  feet  on  the  gravel  path;  just  as  I  had  done 
before,  only  that  time  I  must  have  done  it  unconsciously 
with  the  impetus  of  haste  and  a  pair  of  long  legs — it  was 
lucky  I  didn't  trample  over  those  tell-tale  tracks  in  the 
flower-bed.  Palke  turned  his  torch  on  them. 

"Now,  here  go  the  woman's  tracks,  beyond  the  gravel 
path  and  across  the  lawn.  You  can  see  where  her  heels  broke 
down  the  edge;  that  was  on  her  outward  journey  after  the  job 
was  done — and  here  go  the  gunman's  marks  too;  they're 
very  faint  on  the  wet  grass  and  getting  fainter,  but  you  can 
pick  them  up  again  yonder  at  the  wicket-gate  into  the  park. 
The  woman's  go  as  far  as  that  also.  Park  turf  too  rough  for 


THE    THREE    TRAILS  167 

tracks  and  night  too  wet,  but  I  found  the  gunman's  again  in 
the  Httle  fir  wood  yonder  where  the  tyre  marks  are — you 
saved  me  some  time  on  that  job,  Mr.  Rolfe.  That  car  was 
waiting  for  him;  that's  how  he  quit.  Did  he  take  the  woman 
with  him?  Or  did  she  turn  back  at  the  wicket-gate?  Beyond 
that  I  can't  trace  her  with  any  certainty,  it's  possible  she 
did  reach  the  car.  You'd  expect  her  to.  But  you  might  be 
wrong.  Leave  her  at  that;  we'll  get  her  soon  or  later — with 
luck." 

"Now  to  Number  Three,  the  gentleman  wearing  long  shoes 
and  bearing  a  weight  no  man  could  carry  far  . . .  here  are  his 
tracks,  muddy  on  the  gravel  for  a  few  yards,  but  what  way  do 
they  go?  Not  on  to  the  grass  at  all.  In  fact  they  seem  to  fade 
out  altogether.  Give  Mr.  Rolfe  your  torch,  Begbie.  You  know 
the  grounds  about  your  own  house,  sir,  you're  young  and 
have  keen  eyes,  though  they're  not  trained.  Can  you  make 
out  the  way  he  went?" 

By  the  light  of  Begbie's  torch  I  picked  up  the  long  boot 
marks  where  they  turned  to  the  right  on  the  path.  The  tracks 
of  mould  from  the  flower-bed  soon  failed  and  the  drizzle  was 
hardening  into  a  pelting  rain.  Following  the  direction  quickly 
along  the  path  by  the  side  of  the  house  I  lit  on  tracks  again, 
nearly  getting  past  before  I  spotted  them,  just  to  the  left 
and  deeply  stamped  into  the  lawn. 

"He  staggered  on  to  the  grass  here,"  I  said,  "three — four 
of  his  footprints,  one  of  them  skidded  and  three  of  them 
sideways.  And  back  on  to  the  path  again." 

"Good  for  you!"  said  Palke  approvingly;  "here  he  stag- 
gered; even  you  might  have  staggered  if  you  carried  what  he 
did  and  were  winded  with  running." 

I  could  have  carried  Elaine  half  a  mile  without  doing  any 
staggering,  winded  or  not;  it  occurred  to  me  the  Unknown 
was  scarcely  the  hefty  fellow  Palke  suggested,  and  not  in  the 
prime  of  life  at  that.  I  pressed  on  along  the  path  rapidly;  there 


l68  BLOOD    MONEY 

were  no  more  tracks  up  to  the  point  where  it  ended  in  a 
chained  gate,  that  would  have  taken  some  cUmbing  and  barred 
the  way  that  led  round  to  the  main  drive  fronting  the  house. 
Impossible  that  he  could  have  taken  that  direction;  he  must 
have  turned  somewhere.  I  tried  back  to  the  lawn  before  the 
open  window  where  Palke  had  pointed  out  the  tracks  of  the 
retreating  gunman. 

I  was  so  bucked  with  my  skill  in  tracking  and  the  renewal 
of  hope  arising  out  of  what  had  looked  like  black  tragedy, 
that  I  gave  a  cry  of  triumph  on  spotting  what  both  of  them 
had  missed — a  trail  of  long  shoe  marks  leading  across  the 
softest  part  of  the  lane  away  in  the  direction  of  the  park  and 
the  fir  grove. 

"Here  he  is!  And  going  the  same  way  as  the  gunman  after 
all — right  out  to  where  the  car  was.  That's  your  man,  and 

"  I  bent  and  scanned  the  tracks  closer.  "He  must  have 

got  rid  of  his  burden  too,  no  heel  marks — he  was  moving  on 
tip-toe!" 

The  light  from  the  window  shone  on  Palke 's  face  and  it 
wore  a  pitying  smile,  diluted  with  humour. 

"You're  sure  he  wasn't  walking  on  his  hands  and  waving 
his  feet  at  the  gunman,  Mr.  Rolfe?"  he  said;  "no,  that  Smart 
Alec  didn't  walk  on  tip-toe  and  it  wouldn't  suit  him;  he  was 
merely  running  just  as  hard  as  he  could  pelt,  and  not  doing 
much  thinking.  Fit  the  ball  of  your  shoe  into  those  tracks." 

I  didn't  need  to — only  too  obvious  what  tracks  they  were. 

"It  was  me!"  I  said,  crestfallen. 

"Sure,"  replied  Palke  soothingly. 

Evidently  reading  trails  wasn't  my  long  suit,  though  I've 
done  some  of  it  in  my  time.  I  had  forgotten  that  first  dash 
out  of  mine  across  the  lawn.  I  turned  to  Palke  in  exasperation. 

"What  did  you  bring  me  out  here  for!  Just  to  pull  my  leg?" 

"Far  from  it,  Mr.  Rolfe,"  said  Palke  imperturbably,  "I'm 
here  to  collect  all  the  clues  I  can,  you  have  given  me  con- 


THE    THREE    TRAILS  169 

siderable  help.  Damn  this  rain,  it's  going  to  wipe  everything 
out.  In  another  half-hour  there'll  be  nothing  left." 

He  led  the  way  in  through  the  back  door,  as  if  the  place 
belonged  to  him,  and  as  we  entered  I  saw  Mrs.  Jessop  flit 
across  the  end  of  the  passage  into  the  hall. 

"Who's  that?"  asked  Palke  quickly. 

"The  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Jessop,"  replied  Begbie. 

"Ah,  yes.  I  want  to  see  her.  Not  yet  though — take  her 
into  that  room  where  the  telephone  is — the  library — and  wait 
till  I  come.  Nobody  is  to  go  into  the  morning-room.  That 
doctor's  somewhere  about,  isn't  he?  I  saw  him  up  on  the 
landing  when  I  came  out.  If  you  hear  him  coming  downstairs, 
stop  him.  I  must  see  him  before  he  leaves.  Mr.  Rolfe,  you 
stay  with  me." 


XXIX 

MRS.  JESSOP 

P  A  L  K  E  had  the  key  of  the  morning-room  in  his  pocket. 
He  led  me  in  and  closed  the  door  carefully.  He  turned  to  me 
and  paused  for  a  moment.  I  had  thought  he  was  taking  the 
whole  thing  much  too  calmly  and  callously;  I  suppose  the 
police  do  get  callous.  But  now  that  his  face  was  in  the  light, 
his  eyes  belied  him.  There  was  a  fighting  gleam  in  them, 
but  a  worried,  apprehensive  look  about  him  too. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "it's  clear  how  that  first  pair  made 
their  getaway.  There  won't  be  many  cars  out  to-night,  and 
every  one  that's  running  within  a  fifty-mile  circle  is  being 
stopped  and  examined — they  may  have  been  clicked  already. 
I  think  they  will;  the  cordon  will  take  some  getting  through." 

"But  Elaine!"  I  said. 

"Yes — but  they  were  up  against  something  deeper.  Do 
you  see  your  way  through  it?  Naturally,  you  don't.  And  I've 
been  all  round  the  place,  but  there  isn't  a  sign  I  can  find  to 
show  what  became  of  that  man  with  the  narrow  boots.  He 
may  be  thirty  miles  away;  he  may  be  within  a  mile  of  us — 
he  may  be  here,  in  this  house." 

"Do  you  believe  that?" 

"I  believe  nothing  that  I  can't  prove.  I'm  just  putting 
the  possibilities  to  you.  Mr.  Rolfe,  you  are  rather  deeply 
dipped  in  this  case  yourself,  and  I'm  taking  you  into  my 
confidence  so  far  as  I  can.  The  Commissioner  gives  me  a 
free  hand;  my  methods  are  a  little  unusual,  and  I'm  going  to 
put  an  unusual  question  to  you.  Are  you  on  my  side?  Wholly 
and  unreservedly  on  the  side  of  the  law — from  now  on?" 

"Of  course  I'm  on  your  side!  What  do  you  take  me  for? 
There's  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  to  get  those  devils  laid  by 
the  heels." 


MRS.JESSOP  171 

"That's  good.  I  may  have  to  remind  you  of  it.  An  ugly 
business.  Incidentally  your  own  position  is  an  unpleasant 
one  and  may  become  more  so;  I  feel  a  certain  amount  of 
sympathy  for  you,  more  perhaps  than  you  suspect.  But  you 
may  come  out  of  it  with  credit  yet,  Mr.  Rolfe." 

"What  on  earth  does  my  credit  matter?  Tell  me  how  I  can 
help  you." 

"By  not  breathing  one  word  to  anybody  of  what  you  know 
about  this  case;  keep  it  locked  up  inside  your  skull,  and  your 
mouth  tight  shut.  You've  not  told  anyone— ^before  I  arrived?" 

"Only  Dr.  Tilden." 

"Indeed.  What  did  you  say  to  him?" 

I  told  him. 

"Not  a  word  more  to  anyone,  Mr.  Rolfe;  from  this  moment, 
not  a  syllable.  Excepting  of  course  Inspector  Begbie;  answer 
any  question  he  puts  to  you.  I  have  your  word  that  you  are 
on  my  side.  And  as  this  case  proceeds,  should  you  find  your- 
self unable  to  go  on  helping  me,  you  must  stand  aside  and 
let  the  law  take  its  course.  That  is  a  warning;  and  I  cannot 
say  mord  now," 

"So  long  as  you  get  that  man " 

"Oh,  we'll  get  him,"  said  Inspector  Palke,  "we'll  get 
him." 

His  confidence  buoyed  me  up. 

"And  Miss  Corbyn.  Though  I  thought — I'll  never  believe 
she  is  dead.  You  say  she — she  may  come  through  this 
safely  yet?" 

Palke  looked  disturbed.  He  turned  away  from  me  without 
answering,  walked  slowly  across  the  room  and  back.  Then  he 
faced  me  and  looked  at  me  gravely  and  questioningly. 

"I  said  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"Why.  What  do  you  believe?" 

Inspector  Palke 's  face  was  stony.  His  shoulders  gave  a 
scarcely  perceptible  shrug. 


172  BLOOD    MONEY 

"Mr.  Rolfe.  I  don't  want  to  depress  you  unduly,  but  take 
this  from  me.  In  confidence,  strictly  between  ourselves. 
Better  for  everyone  concerned,  if  Elaine  Corbyn  is  dead; 
better  for  herself.  Better  certainly  for  her  companion,  Miss 
Craddock.  Better,  I  think,  for  you." 

I  stared  at  him,  incapable  of  speech. 

"That  is  all  I  dare  tell  you,  at  this  stage.  But  so  much,  I 
must  tell  you,  remember  it  is  in  strict  confidence  between 
ourselves;  when  this  case  is  ended,  you  will  understand." 

His  eyes  became  sympathetic  as  he  looked  at  me. 

"Surely  Mr.  Rolfe,"  he  said  gently,  but  with  obvious 
surprise,  "there  was  no  attachment  between  you  and — I 
mean " 

"No.  None  at  all." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it — and  forgive  the  question.  I  didn't 
want  to  give  you  pain.  But  Mr.  Rolfe,"  he  said,  "do  you 
really  not  understand  ...  are  you  a  little  dense  or  is  it  only 
that  you  are  upset?  You've  been  with  me  here  an  hour,  you 
have  lived  in  the  inner  circle  of  this  case,  so  to  speak;  you 
have  been  with  Miss  Corbyn  here  for  some  considerable 
time,  and  fairly  intimate  with  her  as  a  guest  in  your  father's 
house — have  you  not  formed  some  conclusion — shall  we  say 
a  suspicion,  concerning  her  and  her  affairs?" 

"Intimate  with  her.  She  told  me  nothing  about  herself, 
nor  of  her  affairs;  she  was  a  paying  guest  here.  I  couldn't 
press  her  to  tell  anything  that  she  chose  to  keep  to  herself." 

Palke  nodded. 

"I  don't  believe  in  the  face  of  everything,  that  she  is  dead 
— I  can't  and  won't  believe  it." 

Palke  looked  at  me  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  helplessly. 

"Believe  what  you  will,  Mr.  Rolfe,  by  all  means,  so  long  as 
you  keep  it  to  yourself.  You  have  believed  so  many  things 
that  turned  out  not  to  be  so." 

He  shut  and  bolted  the  window,  drew  the  curtains  care- 


MRS.    JESSOP  173 

fully,  and  ushered  me  out  of  the  room,  locking  the  door 
behind  us. 

"Now  I'm  going  to  see  that  housekeeper  of  yours.  Don't 
go  away.  I  should  like  you  to  be  with  me  if  you  please." 

In  the  library  we  found  Mrs.  Jessop  and  Begbie.  I  looked 
at  my  father's  housekeeper  curiously.  It  would  take  a  land- 
slide to  shake  Mrs.  Jessop 's  heavy  Victorian  calm,  but  she 
was  shaken  now,  though  she  did  her  best  not  to  show  it. 
She  was  very  pale  and  her  eyes,  usually  dull,  were  watchful 
and  alert. 


XXX 

LORD  TRENT  RETURNS 

"A  ROUGH  night,  Mrs.  Jessop,"  said  Palke,  "and  I  see 
you've  had  the  misfortune  to  be  out  in  it,  and  have  very 
wisely  changed  your  shoes.  Where  did  you  do  so?" 

"My  shoes,  sir?"  she  said  stupidly.  "My  shoes — I  changed 
them  because  they  were  wet." 

"I  didn't  say  why,  but  where.  It  will  save  time  if  you  tell 
me  at  once." 

She  stared  at  him,  and  hesitated. 

"In  the  lobby  next  the  service  passage.  What  have  my 
shoes  got  to  do  with " 

"All  right,  Mrs.  Jessop."  Palke  nodded  to  Begbie,  who 
left  the  room  quietly.  Mrs.  Jessop  peered  at  the  visitor  from 
Scotland  Yard,  her  under  lip  trembling.  Palke  set  a  chair  for 
her  courteously. 

"Inspector  Begbie  has  told  you  who  I  am.  Something  very 
serious  has  happened,  Mrs.  Jessop.  Will  you  tell  me  what 
took  you  out  of  the  house,  roughly  between  a  quarter  to 
nine  and  nine-twenty,  and  which  way  you  went?  I  am 
putting  the  times  to  you,  to  save  trouble." 

"Mr.  Rolfe  told  me  to  find  his  lordship — I  was  to  find 
him  at  once.  I  thought  he  had  gone  out  somewhere,  and  I 
put  on  my  rain-cloak " 

"But  before  that?  You  came  in  at  nine-twenty.  That  was 
when  Mr.  Rolfe  gave  you  that  order,  surely?  In  what 
direction  did  you  go  when  you  left  the  house  earlier?" 

"I  went  down  the  park  road  to  the  west  lodge  ...  to  see 
my  son,  who  is  the  gatekeeper  there." 

"And  did  you  see  him?" 

"No,  sir.  The  lodge  was  dark,  and  nobody  there.  So  I 
came  back." 


LORD    TRENT    RETURNS  I75 

"  Straight  back?" 

"Yes  sir " 

"About  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  isn't  it?  And  Mr.  Rolfe 
ordered  you  out  again.  Did  you,  either  time,  make  your  way 
to  the  west  side  of  the  house — near  the  morning-room  or  the 
gun-room?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Quite  sure  of  that?"  said  Palke.  "And  you  were  sent  to 
find  Lord  Trent — if  you  could.  Did  you  find  him?* 

"No,  sir." 

"You  had  no  success  at  all.  Have  you  any  idea  where 
Lord  Trent  is  at  present?" 

"None  at  all,  sir." 

"Two  fruitless  errands?"  said  Palke. 

She  made  no  answer.  There  was  a  suppressed  hostility  in 
her  manner,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  was  pretty  badly 
frightened,  though  she  gave  no  outward  sign  of  it.  She  had 
replied  to  his  questions  coolly  enough,  but  I  felt  a  conviction 
that  she  was  lying.  Palke  treated  her  quite  gently,  he  had 
nothing  of  the  bully  in  him.  There  was  a  queer  little  smile  at 
the  corners  of  his  mouth,  his  eyes  were  hard  and  penetrating, 
and  never  left  her  face. 

"Thank  you,  that  will  do  for  the  present,"  he  said,  opening 
the  door  for  her. 

She  stopped  in  the  doorway  and  turned  to  him  abruptly. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  all  this!"  she  cried.  "Aren't  I  to 
be  told  what  it's  about?  I " 

"I  have  too  much  on  my  hands  at  the  moment,  Mrs. 
Jessop,"  he  replied.  "Unless  you  can  think  of  anything  that 
might  interest  me." 

She  closed  her  thin  lips  and  went  out,  her  damp  black  silk 
gown  rustling  as  she  retreated  down  the  hall. 

"How  long  has  that  dame  been  with  you?"  said  Palke 
to  me. 


176  BLOOD    MONEY 

"Ever  since  we  came  to  Stan  ways.  Good  heavens  man, 
you  don't  think ?" 

"Never  mind  what  I  think.  There's  one  curious  point  I'd 
like  you  to  notice;  everyone  concerned  in  this  case,  every- 
body in  any  way  connected  with  it — has  got  something  to 
hide." 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  challenging  eye. 

"You  not  least  of  them,  Mr.  Rolfe.  But  I  will  say,  you've 
been  comparatively  frank  with  me.  Yes;  everyone  with  a 
secret  of  his  or  her  own,  vital  or  trivial,  but  linking  right  up 
with  the  case.  Queer,  isn't  it?  But  here's  your  doctor  coming 
down," 

Tilden  crossed  the  hall  and  entered  the  library,  carrying 
his  little  black  bag.  He  cast  a  suspicious  glance  at  me. 

"How  is  Miss  Craddock,  Doctor?"  asked  Palke. 

"Shock.  Severe  mental  shock,"  replied  Tilden.  "Poor 
girl  .  . .  don't  wonder.  Can't  make  this  business  out.  Had  her 
put  to  bed — better  to-morrow  if  she  gets  some  rest;  got  to 
be  kept  quiet." 

"Much  may  happen  before  to-morrow — is  she  well  enough 
to  see  me  now?  Only  for  a  minute,"  said  Palke,  "I  have  got 
to  see  her." 

Tilden  hesitated. 

"If  it's  so  urgent " 

"It  is  vital.  Doctor.  Tell  her  so.  Ask  her,  please,  if  she  will 
receive  Inspector  Palke  of  Scotland  Yard." 

Tilden  returned  upstairs.  I  was  following  him,  when  Palke 
stopped  me  and  pushed  the  door  to. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Mr.  Rolfe?" 

"To  Miss  Craddock;  and  I  will  see  her  first." 

"No,  sir.  I  am  going  to  see  her  myself  before  she  receives 
anyone  in  this  household.  You  can't  claim  right  of  precedence 
of  the  C.I.D.  in  a  case  of  rtiurder." 

"Damn  the  C.I.D. ,"  I  said,  "and  don't  talk  to  me  of  right; 


LORD    TRENT    RETURNS  I77 

I  go  to  the  girl  I'm  going  to  marry  and  all  Scotland  Yard 
isn't  going  to  stop  me." 

"Gently,  Mr.  Rolfe.  You  are  to  marry  Miss  Craddock 
then — here's  another  thing  you  didn't  tell  me  but  left  me  to 
discover  for  myself.  Now,  will  you  tell  me  how  long  this 
has  been  fixed?" 

"What  the  devil  is  that  to  you!"  I  said  furiously.  Then  I 
checked  myself.  "No — you  must  know  if  you've  got,  to. 
Why  not?  Since  to-night,  and  in  the  gun-room — the  time 
about  nine  o'clock.  Does  that  satisfy  you?" 

"Quite,"  replied  Palke  with  that  gentle  little  smile  of  his, 
"we  don't  deal  much  with  romance  at  the  Yard,  our  business 
is  mostly  rather  sordid."  He  laid  a  friendly  hand  on  my 
arm.  "Now,  take  a  word  of  counsel  from  one  who's  sorry  for 
a  man  that's  had  a  very  bad  time  and  isn't  nearly  through 
it  yet.  Don't  go  near  Miss  Craddock  till  the  morning.  Stand 
down  and  let  me  see  her  in  your  place;  it  will  be  better  for 
her — and  safer." 

"Very  well,"  I  said  after  a  pause.  "Have  it  your  own  way." 

He  nodded,  and  passed  out.  I  dropped  into  a  chair,  only 
too  glad  to  be  alone.  I  had  had  just  as  much  as  I  could 
stand.  After  all  it  was  useless  to  oppose  Palke  in  anything  he 
chose  to  do — foolish  perhaps,  too. 

I've  no  idea  how  long  I  sat  there,  trying  to  overtake 
events;  it  couldn't  have  been  more  than  a  few  minutes  before 
the  door  opened — I  was  expecting  Palke,  but  it  was  Begbie 
who  came  in.  He  said  nothing,  but  stood  looking  at  me 
silently,  and  then  began  to  move  around  the  room,  examining 
things  that  lay  on  the  desk  and  tables.  I  thought  he  was 
going  to  question  me,  and  was  thankful  when  he  didn't. 

An  idea  was  growing  in  my  mind  that  hadn't  occurred  to 
me  before;  a  suspicion  that  took  hold  of  me  and  sealed  my 
lips  more  effectively  than  any  of  Palke 's  hints  and  warnings 
about  keeping  silence.  I  believed  that  I  understood  why  he 


178  BLOOD    MONEY 

was  sorry  for  me — if  a  C.I.D.  official  has  time  to  be  sorry  for 
anybody.  A  moment  or  two  later  he  returned. 

"I've  seen  Miss  Craddock,"  he  said  to  me,  "I  may  tell  you 
I  haven't  upset  her  at  all,  didn't  have  to  worry  her  much. 
She  has  answered  a  few  questions  I  had  to  put  to  her,  and 
though  of  course  she's  had  a  sad  time  of  it  Dr.  Tilden  says 
she'll  be  better  in  the  morning  and  you  can  see  her  then. 
She  was  very  anxious  to  hear  about  you;  I  told  her  that 
you  were  under  no  suspicion  of  any  kind  whatever  and  were 
quite  free  from  blame — which  was  stretching  the  truth 
rather,  but  I  think  it  did  her  at  least  as  much  good  as 
the  sleeping-draught  Dr.  Tilden's  given  her.  Still,  Miss 
Craddock  is  out  of  reach  of  any  trouble  whatever  else  may 
happen  to-night.  So  try  and  get  that  off  your  mind." 

"You're  a  good  fellow,"  I  said  gratefully.  "I'm  sorry  I 
lost  my  temper,  but  I've  been  through  hell — I'll  see  Tilden 
before  he  goes.  ..." 

"He's  gone.  That's  his  car  leaving  now.  I  want  this  house 
clear  of  everybody  not  connected  with  it."  He  turned  to  his 
colleague.  "Well,  Begbie?" 

"Got  the  woman's  shoes — tried  them  outside.  Just  the 
size,  but  the  rain's  made  all  tracks  pretty  nearly  a  wash-out," 
said  Begbie. 

Palke  drew  him  over  to  the  fireplace  and  they  conversed 
a  few  moments  in  an  undertone.  I  was  not  concerning  myself 
about  Mrs.  Jessop,  my  thoughts  led  elsewhere.  Not  even 
Jenny's  message — if  one  could  call  it  that — comforted  me  for 
long.  I  could  see  the  situation  getting  more  deadly  than  ever, 
and  the  end  approaching.  Palke  came  across  to  me. 

"I  suppose,  Mr.  Rolfe,"  he  said,  "you've  no  idea  where 
Lord  Trent  is?  No?  Never  mind — won't  trouble  you  any 
further."  He  moved  to  the  door. 

"Can't  say — don't  know  when  he'll  be  back,"  I  said  dully. 
I  didn't  even  know  whether  he  had  taken  the  Chrysler. 


LORD    TRENT    RETURNS  179 

"No?  I  think  he'll  turn  up — the  car  is  in  the  garage,"  said 
Palke,  knotting  the  scarf  round  his  throat. 

"He  often  goes  out  at  night — rather  a  habit — he  may  have 
gone  to  Brookfields,"  I  said. 

"Yes?"  returned  Palke,  as  if  dismissing  the  subject!  He 
nodded  to  his  companion.  "Begbie,  it's  time  for  me  to  quit; 
I've  got  to  get  the  wires  working.  You  stay  on — you  know 
just  what  I  want  done,  and  there's  no  man  can  do  it  better. 
Good  night,  Mr.  Rolfe,  I  shall  be  seeing  you  again." 

He  went  out  abruptly;  I  heard  his  car  buzzing  away  down 
the  avenue.  I  was  left  alone  with  Begbie. 

"A  difficult  case,  sir;  an  ugly  business,"  he  said  quietly. 
"But  Inspector  Palke  is  one  of  the  ablest  officers  at  the  Yard, 
and  we're  working  together — we  shall  straighten  this  thing 
out.  You  will  understand,  Mr.  Rolfe,  that  in  a  case  as  tangled 
as  this  the  police  may  have  to  take  rather  unusual  measures. 
You'll  make  allowances,  as  we're  doing  for  you." 

He  looked  sorry  for  me.  I  could  see  sympathy  even  in  the 
face  of  the  sardonic  Begbie. 

"Do  you  want  me  any  longer?"  I  said. 

"Sorry,  sir;  just  a  little  while  yet." 

I  heard  a  step  in  the  hall,  and  the  library  door  opened. 
My  father  appeared,  in  a  dripping  Inverness  cloak,  his  boots 
mud-stained  and  his  face  bleached  and  wet  with  the  rain. 
He  stopped  short  as  he  saw  the  Inspector  standing  beside  me. 

"You?"  he  said.  "Again  the  inevitable  Begbie.  Have  you 
been  expecting  me?" 


XXXI 

THE  WESSON  PISTOL 

B  E  G  B  I  E  closed  the  door. 

"Do  you  know  what  has  happened,  Lord  Trent?"  he  said. 

"Something  serious,  I  suppose,  to  bring  you  from  your 
desk  in  such  weather;  I  never  saw  a  man  look  more  worried," 
said  my  father  coolly.  "Your  case  is  progressing?" 

"Will  you  tell  me " 

"Inspector  Begbie,"  said  my  father.  "Will  you  tell  me 
first  just  what  the  trouble  is,  if  any,  and  then  you  will  find 
me  in  the  mood  to  answer  questions.  Pray  sit  down." 

Begbie 's  eyes  narrowed,  and  he  remained  standing. 

"I  have  to  tell  you.  Lord  Trent,  that  Miss  Corbyn  has  been 
shot;  and  that  she  has  disappeared  out  of  the  house  since  your 
son,  who  found  her,  went  to  ring  for  the  poKce  and  Dr. 
Tilden." 

My  father  stared  at  him  as  if  turned  to  stone. 

"And  Miss  Craddock!  Was  she " 

"Miss  Craddock  is  upstairs  in  her  room — and  in  no 
danger. 

"And  now  Lord  Trent,"  said  Begbie,  taking  the  chair  that 
had  been  offered  him,  "I  will  give  you  the  facts  as  shortly 
as  I  can,  before  I  ask  you  to  answer  my  questions." 

He  did  so.  I  sat  by  while  Begbie  outlined  the  story 
briefly  and  formally;  what  he  told  or  how  much  he  left  out  I 
scarcely  noticed  for  I  was  not  listening  to  him;  I  was  watching 
my  father's  face.  It  told  me  nothing.  I  never  saw  a  man  more 
completely  master  of  himself.  But  that  was  his  way  in 
moments  of  crisis.  He  waited  till  Begbie  had  finished,  and 
sat  silent  a  moment  or  two, 

"A  dreadful  business,"  he  said.  "And  it  was  my  son  who 
summoned   you   so   quickly — you   were   here   within   ten 


THE    WESSON    PISTOL  l8l 

minutes  of  its  occurring.  Go  on,  man!  What  now  ?  Is  that  as 
far  as  you  have  got?" 

"Not  quite.  I  have  to  account  for  everybody  who  was 
outside  to-night,"  said  Begbie.  "Immediately  after  the 
discovery.  Lord  Trent,  your  son  sent  the  housekeeper  out  to 
look  for  you.  She  says  she  was  unable  to  find  you.  You  didn't 
see  anything  of  her?" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Jessop?  Nothing  whatever." 

"Then  you  confirm  that  she  told  me  the  truth?" 

"I  have  always  found  Mrs.  Jessop  as  truthful  as  most 
people,  but  I  answer  only  for  myself,"  said  my  father 
quietly.  "It  occurs  to  you  that  we  might  both  be  lying ?" 

"Please  don't  put  suggestions  in  my  mouth.  Lord  Trent; 
I  did  not  say  so.  I  am  collecting  information  to  complete  my 
case,  and  I  would  like  you  to  tell  me  when  you  last  saw 
Miss  Corby n,  and  what  passed  between  you." 

"When  I  last  saw  Miss  Corby n  she  was  sitting  in  that 
chair  which  you  occupy  at  present,  and  nothing  passed 
between  us  except  a  cup  of  coffee  which  she  poured  out  for 
me. 

"What  time  was  this?" 

"About  half-past  eight.  We  had  finished  dinner  early, 
and  she  was  here  alone  with  me.  She  was  unusually  silent; 
not  that  she  was  ever  a  great  talker,  and  she  seldom  told  me 
anything  about  her  affairs.  But  to-night  she  scarcely  answered 
when  I  spoke  to  her.  A  few  minutes  later  she  left  me,  and 
where  she  went  I  don't  know." 

"I  was  left  alone,  and  for  some  time  past  I  have  had  a 
distaste  for  being  alone  here  in  the  evening;  I  got  up  and 
walked  about  the  room;  I  felt  restless  and  uneasy;  I  hardly 
know  why,  I  opened  the  window.  I  heard  the  dog  barking 
— my  son's  dog,  down  in  the  kennels  by  the  south  wing.  The 
night  was  dark  and  slightly  drizzly,  but  I  got  my  hat  and 
raincoat  and  went  out." 


1 82  BLOODMONEY 

"The  dog  gave  the  alarm  then,  and  you  thought  there  was 
someone  about  who  ought  not  to  be?" 

"He  gave  no  alarm,  he's  not  that  kind  of  dog,  he  is  old 
and  rather  deaf.  It  is  my  son's  business  to  exercise  him  and 
he  was  barking  because  he  had  been  shut  up  all  day.  It  is 
bad  for  man  or  dog  to  be  shut  up  all  day,  and  I  let  him  out 
and  took  him  for  a  walk.  I  went  down  the  south  road  through 
the  park — and  I  returned  just  now  to  be  met  with  this  ghastly 
news  from  you.  Inspector  Begbie,  which  is  enough  to  upset 
any  man's  balance.  But  I  fear  that  is  all  I  can  tell  you,  and 
surely  you  should  get  on  to  a  line  which  will  give  you 
better  results  than  I  can." 

"You  changed  your  shoes,  Lord  Trent,  before  going  out?" 

"I  did,"  said  my  father,  looking  down  at  his  long  mud- 
stained  walking-boots.  "I  could  hardly  go  in  pumps,  and 
you  have  not  given  me  time  to  change  back." 

"I  think  I've  got  it  now,"  said  Begbie;  "you  left  the  house 
a  little  before  nine  and  you've  been  away  in  a  south  direction 
for  rather  over  an  hour;  your  only  reason  was  to  take  the  dog 
for  a  walk." 

"My  chief  reason,"  said  my  father,  reaching  for  the  cigars 
and  lighting  one  with  care;  "you  won't  mind  my  smoking? 
If  it  doesn't  seem  heartless — it  is  composing  when  one  has 
bad  news.  Yes,  that  was  my  reason.  Will  you  have  one  your- 
self, Begbie?" 

Begbie  shook  his  head. 

"I  want  to  fix  times.  Lord  Trent.  When  Mrs.  Jessop  was 
sent  by  your  son  to  look  for  you  it  was  nine-twenty.  Can  you 
tell  me  where  you  were  at  that  time?" 

"I  can  tell  you  exactly.  Do  you  ever  listen  to  chimes, 
Begbie?  I  heard  the  church  bells  chime  the  quarter  just  as  I 
was  passing  the  south  lodge  gates  and  on  into  the  south 
lane." 

"Did  you  see  anybody  there?" 


THEWESSONPISTOL  1 83 

"There's  nobody  to  see;  the  south  lodge  is  empty." 

"  I  know  it  is,  Lord  Trent.  You  saw  nobody,  then,  and 
nobody  saw  you.  That  is  just  a  mile  from  here.  Nine-fifteen, 
At  nine- thirteen  the  shot  was  fired,  in  the  morning-room,  as 
I  told  you  just  now — as  the  clock  told  me.  Your  son's  'phone 
call  came  through  to  me  at  nine-twenty-five,  and  a  minute  or 
two  later  Miss  Corbyn,  dead  or  living,  had  disappeared. 
You  were  at  the  lodge  and  still  walking  south  along  the  lane; 
how  far  did  you  go?" 

"Another  five  minutes,  maybe." 

"Then  at  nine-twenty  you  must  have  been  hard  by  Black 
Spinney." 

"How  well  you  know  the  Stanways  geography,  Begbie," 
said  my  father  admiringly.  "You  certainly  ought  to  by  this 
time.  Yes,  at  the  time  you  mention  I  was  by  the  stile  at  the 
head  cf  Black  Spinney,  and  I  remained  there  another  five 
minutes  or  more." 

"Was  no  one  there  beside  you?" 

"Possibly  the  ghost  of  Linke,"  said  my  father,  "but  if  so 
I  didn't  see  it;  I  suppose  I  am  not  spiritual  enough.  You  are 
going  to  ask  me  what  the  devil  I  was  doing  near  Black 
Spinney  on  an  unpleasant  night  like  this,  after  a  comfortable 
dinner?  Let  me  assure  you  I  was  not  drawn  there  by  the 
impulse  which  is  said  to  draw  murderers  back  to  the  scene 
of  their  crime.  A  mystery  rather  than  a  crime,  which  I  confess 
baffles  me  almost  as  much  as  it  appears  to  do  you." 

"It  may  seem  somewhat  baffling,  but  it  is  becoming 
clearer  as  we  proceed.  Lord  Trent,"  said  Begbie. 

They  eyed  each  other  as  they  spoke,  Begbie  grim  and 
purposeful,  my  father  perfectly  at  ease. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  Inspector.  It  is  an  intense  relief  to 
me  to  know  that  this  case  is  going  to  be  straightened  out  by 
you,  the  most  efficient  officer  in  Hertfordshire,  though 
perhaps  the  least  tactful." 


184  BLOOD    MONEY 

"And  you  were  alone  during  the  entire  time  of  your 
absence  from  the  house,  Lord  Trent?"  pursued  Begbie 
immovably.  "Were  you  armed?  And  are  you  armed  at  the 
present  moment?" 

"Armed!"  My  father  uncrossed  his  legs,  and  gazed  at  him. 
"Now  why — my  good  Inspector,  why  do  you  ask  me  such  a 
question?" 

"Because  you  seem  unable  to  sit  quite  comfortably  in 
that  chair.  That's  why  I  asked  the  question.  Shall  I  ask  it 
again?" 

"No,"  said  my  father,  "for  I  defy  anybody  to  sit  comfort- 
ably in  thin  evening  trousers  with  one  of  these  things  at  his 
back.  I  congratulate  you  on  your  gift  of  observation,  and  I 
am  glad  to  be  rid  of  it." 

He  reached  behind  him  deliberately  and  pulled  out  a 
little  automatic,  which  he  handed  to  Begbie. 


XXXII 
THE  WILL 

"Loaded.  Be  careful  with  the  safety-catch,"  said  my 
father.  "Great  penetration  at  short  range — like  yourself 
Begbie — but  it  couldn't  carry  a  mile  and  a  half." 

"No  Wesson  would  carry  a  mile  and  a  half,"  replied 
Begbie  dryly.  He  examined  the  gun,  unloaded  it,  and  laid  it 
on  the  table  by  his  side. 

"You  had  better  keep  it,"  said  Dad.  "I  haven't  a  permit 
for  it  and  I  believe  that's  an  offence  against  the  law,  whose 
protection  I've  felt  rather  less  confidence  in  since  the  death 
of  Linke."  His  tone  altered;  he  sat  up  in  his  chair  and 
stared  coldly  at  Begbie.  He  might  have  been  a  magistrate 
addressing  an  unsatisfactory  witness. 

"Inspector  Begbie,"  he  said,  "do  you  think  the  police  are 
managing  this  case  well?  Is  such  an  outrage  as  occurred 
to-night  to  go  unpunished,  while  you  sit  at  my  table 
asking  questions  of  me,  who  have  no  knowledge  of  it  what- 
ever?" 

"It  will  not  go  unpunished,  Lord  Trent,"  said  Begbie. 

"You  said  the  same  the  day  after  Linke  was  shot.  All  you 
could  tell  me  is  that  he  was  a  crook — I  could  have  told  you 
as  much  as  that,  and  did.  Have  you  traced  him?" 

"Yes,  sir.  We've  traced  Linke." 

"Traced  him!"  said  my  father  quickly.  "You  know  his 
name?" 

"And  so  do  you.  Lord  Trent;  but  Linke 's  death  occurred 
a  month  ago  and  I  am  concerned  to-night  with  the  man  who 
killed  him.  The  man  who  was  behind  that  case  is  behind 
this  one." 

"And  this  man — when  will  you  make  sure  of  him?"  said 
my  father,  "or  will  you  let  him  slip  through  your  fingers,  as 


l86  BLOOD    MONEY 

you  did  last  time?  How  much  rope  are  you  going  to  give 
him?" 

"Just  enough  for  a  six-foot  drop,"  said  Begbie.  "We 
always  get  our  man  in  the  end.  It's  the  jury's  hands  we  have 
to  see  he  doesn't  slip  through,  not  ours." 

"1  admire  your  confidence,  too,"  said  my  father,  "and  I 
notice  you  say  'we.'  Can  it  be  that  you  are  no  longer  in 
charge  of  this  case,  Begbie?" 

"I  am  collaborating  with  Inspector  Palke  of  the  Yard," 
said  Begbie,  unruffled,  "you  didn't  happen  to  meet  his  car 
leaving?" 

My  father  sat  back,  and  shook  his  head. 

"You  speak  of  certainties  Begbie,  but  to  me,  ignorant 
layman  that  I  am,  the  case  seems  full  of  doubt.  You  haven't 
made  it  clear  yet  whether  Miss  Corby n,  who  was  found  in 
an  empty  room,  wounded,  with  a  pistol  beside  her,  is  actually 
dead  or  living.  Nor,  except  for  a  theory  which  may  be  wrong, 
how  she  came  to  be  removed  so  mysteriously.  You  do  not 
tell  me  these  things,  because  of  course  the  police  have  to  be 
discreet,  or  .  .  .  pardon  me  if  I  suspect  that  it  is  because  you 
don't  really  know  them?  But  what  I  fail  entirely  to  under- 
stand is  why  Miss  Corbyn  should  have  vanished — if  she 
was  removed.  Why?  What  motive  could  anyone  have  for 
doing  such  a  thing?" 

"The  motive.  I'll  show  you  that  very  soon — in  fact  I  am 
close  up  against  it  now,"  said  Begbie,  rising.  "The  motive 
sometimes  evades  us  for  a  while  at  first,  but  it  never  remains 
obscure  for  long."  He  moved  over  to  the  desk  by  the  window, 
paused,  and  glanced  back.  "Of  course,  all  this  has  been  a 
terrible  shock  to  you,  Lord  Trent?" 

"Perfectly  terrible,"  said  my  father  slowly.  "Linke  was 
no  loss  to  anyone.  He  was  hardly  worth  hanging  a  man  for. 
His  death,  if  anything,  was  a  gain  to  society.  But  that  a 
young,  attractive,  courageous  girl  like  Elaine  Corbyn — it 


THE    WILL  187 

doesn't  bear  thinking  of.  I  refuse  to  believe  her  dead.  Do 
you  expect  to  recover  her — dead  or  living?" 

"It  is  a  little  early  to  answ^er  that,"  said  Begbie,  picking 
up  the  silver-bound  blotting-pad  that  I  had  seen  him 
examining  before.  "One  more  question — did  Miss  Corbyn 
ever  conduct  her  affairs,  or  do  any  of  her  vs^riting  in  this 
room?" 

"I  don't  think  she  did.  She  had  a  private  room  upstairs, 
which  she  always  used." 

Begbie  turned  the  face  of  the  blotting-pad  to  a  mirror 
that  hung  on  the  wall  beside  the  desk.  I  could  see  in  the 
reflection,  among  a  few  blotted  lines  on  the  white  paper,  a 
signature  with  a  large  capital  E.  He  laid  the  pad  down  again 
thoughtfully. 

"You  cannot  think  of  anything  else  at  all,  Lord  Trent, 
concerning  Miss  Corbyn — which  might  help  me  in  this 
case?" 

"Nothing.  I  would  tell  you  if  I  could.  She  was  very 
secretive  about  her  affairs — very." 

Begbie  nodded. 

"One  more  thing  I  have  to  do.  Lord  Trent,  before  taking 
any  final  measures.  I  have  to  search  Miss  Corbyn *s  room 
for  any  letters  or  papers  that  might  throw  a  light  on 
the  case." 

"Do  so,"  said  my  father,  "if  you  must.  You  know  best, 
and  I  will  not  be  present;  it  would  be  more  than  I  can  stand. 
If  you  know  the  room " 

"Next  to  Miss  Craddock's,  isn't  it?"  said  Begbie,  and  went 
out. 

My  father  turned  to  me,  his  face  grey  and  drawn. 

"I  have  always  loathed  that  man,"  he  said  quietly,  "which 
is  unreasonable  after  all,  for  he  is  doing  his  duty." 

"For  heaven's  sake,  if  you  know  anything,  tell  me!"  I 
said  under  my  breath. 


l88  BLOOD    MONEY 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment.  The  mask  came  back  over 
his  face,  defensive  and  sHghtly  mocking,  just  as  when  Begbie 
questioned  him,  I  never  saw  his  eyes  so  hard. 

"I  am  in  the  dark  too,"  he  said.  "But  this  man  Palke — 
this  sleuth  from  London — you've  seen  him?  What  did  he 
want  of  you.  Ken?" 

"All  he  wanted  of  me  was  silence." 

"Silence?  Wise  fellow!  Stick  to  that  advice,  Ken — nothing 
so  safe  as  silence.  Let  the  police  do  their  job;  don't  you  butt 
in.  What  can  you  hope  to  do?" 

"Listen,  father !" 

"I'm  a  bad  listener,"  he  said,  moving  to  the  door,  "and  a 
worse  talker.  I'm  sorry  for  everyone  concerned  in  this  thing. 
Ken,  and  not  least  for  you.  You're  my  son  and  I  put  you 
first."  He  paused  with  his  hand  on  the  door  knob  and  looked 
back  at  me. 

"You're  looking  upset,  my  boy,  and  it's  not  to  be  wondered 
at.  You've  no  other  news,  I  suppose,  apart  from  this  awful 
business?" 

He  might  as  well  have  it  now  as  any  other  time. 

"I  asked  Jenny  to  marry  me." 

He  nodded. 

"I  needn't  ask  what  she  said,  Ken — she  loves  you.  Good 
little  girl,  Jenny.  I'm  fond  of  her  myself.  I  couldn't  have 
wished  you  better  fortune.  But  I  suppose  this  isn't  the  time 
to  congratulate  you." 

He  sighed,  and  went  out. 

I  stayed  a  few  moments,  staring  at  the  closed  door.  Even 
now  I  did  not  know  what  to  think.  When  I  followed  into  the 
hall,  he  was  gone.  The  house  seemed  as  silent  as  the  tomb. 
Begbie  was  somewhere  upstairs,  as  busy  as  ever.  The  front 
doors  stood  open,  I  took  an  electric  torch  from  the  box  in 
the  hall  and  passed  out  into  the  rain. 

The  first  place  I  made  for  was  the  kennels  where  Dan  the 


THEWILL  1 89 

spaniel  lived,  near  the  stables,  and  called  to  him,  rattling 
the  gate.  I  turned  the  torch  on  him  as  he  came  blinking  out 
of  his  straw  bed  into  the  kennel  yard,  his  tail  wagging 
amiably;  his  coat  and  ears  seemed  dry.  I  opened  the  gate, 
and  the  old  fellow  trotted  along  behind  me  in  the  rain  and 
mud  as  I  went  back  past  the  porch. 

Another  thought  occurred  to  me.  I  skirted  round  to  the 
garage  and  glanced  in  through  the  window.  The  Chrysler 
was  there.  So  was  Elaine's  new  Rolls,  in  the  next  shed. 
Both  cars  were  accounted  for.  As  I  shut  off  the  torch  I 
heard  a  sharp  voice  with  a  Scotch  burr  overhead  at  the  open 
window  of  the  chauffeur's  quarters. 

"Who's  that  stravaigin'  round  here  at  this  time  o'  night? 
Whay  d'ye  want?" 

"All  right — get  back  to  bed,"  I  said  shortly,  and  hurried 
back  along  the  streaming  paths.  I  returned  Dan  to  his 
kennel,  and  when  I  reached  the  house  again  Begbie  was 
coming  downstairs  with  a  sheaf  of  papers  and  valise  in  his 
hand.  He  made  for  the  library,  and  at  the  same  moment  my 
father  came  across  the  hall  from  the  gun-room. 

He  looked  at  Begbie  with  the  same  cold  resentment  that 
he  had  shown  on  the  night  when  I  caught  Linke  spying 
behind  the  door. 

"Finished  your  search,  Inspector?"  he  said.  "Am  I  to 
hear  the  result?" 

Begbie  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"I've  a  telephone  call  to  put  through,"  he  said,  "but  I'll 
tell  you  the  result  right  away.  Lord  Trent,  for  I've  made  a 
discovery  of  the  first  importance,  and  it  concerns  you  and 
your  son." 

He  unhooked  the  receiver  on  the  library  table  as  my 
father  seated  himself. 

"Station!  .  .  .  Hullo!  Begbie  speaking.  Send  the  police  car 
to  Stanways  House.  .  .  .  Inspector  Palke  there?  .  .  ." 


190  BLOOD    MONEY 

"Is  it  your  intention  to  arrest  me,  Begbie?"  said  my 
father  with  that  alluring  little  smile  of  his.  Begbie  hung  up 
the  receiver  and  glanced  across  at  him. 

"Why  should  you  imagine  that,  Lord  Trent?" 

"Because  if  you  do,  should  you  not  give  me  the  customary 
warning?  All  I  know  of  police  methods  has  been  gathered 
from  works  of  fiction — doubtless  by  people  who  know 
nothing  about  the  subject." 

"I  don't  study  fiction;  facts  are  the  only  things  that 
count  in  police  work,"  said  Begbie,  and  laid  the  valise  and 
papers  beside  him  on  the  table.  "I  went  through  Miss 
Corbyn's  belongings;  the  writing-case  and  drawers  were 
locked  but  I  opened  them,  and  among  various  private 
papers  I  found  two  things  that  justify  the  search  I  made, 
and  here  they  are. 

"One  is  a  letter  addressed  to  Miss  Jenny  Craddock. 
The  other  is  this  document,"  said  Begbie,  drawing  a  folded 
paper  from  a  long  envelope,  "which  I'll  begin  with  as  it's  by 
far  the  most  important.  You  don't  know  what  it  is.  Lord 
Trent?" 

"I  am  waiting  for  your  explanation.  Inspector,"  said  my 
father,  "the  case  is  in  your  hands,  not  mine." 

"I  asked  because  it  carries  your  signature  and  it  is  dated 
five  days  back,"  said  Begbie.  "I  will  read  it  out,  for  it  explains 
itself." 

And  in  a  stolid,  unemotional  voice,  as  if  he  were  a  broker 
detailing  a  bill,  Begbie  read  aloud  what  was  to  me  the  most 
amazing  news  I  ever  heard  in  my  life. 

"This  is  the  last  Will  and  Testament  of  me  Elaine  Corbyn 
Power.  I  give  and  bequeath  three  million  dollars  in  invested 
stock  held  in  my  name  in  the  Guaranty  Trust  Bank,  New 
York,  to  my  loyal  friend  and  companion  Jenny  Craddock, 
and  a  further  sum  of  three  millions  to  my  husband,  Michael 
Power,  formerly  of  Deer  Lake,  Michigan,  if  he  survives  me; 


THE    WILL  191 

the  remainder  of  my  property  of  every  kind  and  where- 
soever situate  I  bequeath  to  the  aforesaid  Jenny  Craddock 
unconditionally  and  I  appoint  her  Executrix  of  this  my  will; 
as  witness  my  hand  this  Eighth  day  of  November,  1929." 

"Signed, 

"ELAINE  CORBYN  POWER. 

"Witnessed:  Trent  of  Denham;  Stanways,  Hertfordshire. 
Martha  Jessop;  Housekeeper,  Stanways." 


XXXIII 
WHO  IS  MICHAEL  POWER? 

I  s  A  T  in  stunned  silence  as  Begbie  finished  the  reading  of 
the  will.  I  looked  at  my  father  who  sat  very  still,  watching 
the  Inspector  through  half-closed  eyes.  It  seemed  to  me  his 
self-control  was  shaken  at  last. 

"A  remarkable  document,  Lord  Trent,"  said  Begbie, 
smoothing  it  out.  "It  seems  quite  in  order,  so  far  as  one  can 
judge.  Miss  Craddock  inherits  three  million  dollars:  roughly 
j^6oo,ooo;  and  Michael  Power  benefits  equally." 

"Michael  Power!"  said  my  father,  reaching  for  the  paper. 
"And  can  you  tell  me.  Inspector,  who  the  devil  Michael 
Power  is?" 

"It's  plain  enough  from  this  paper  that  he  is  Elaine 
Power's  husband.  Her  maiden  name  was  Elaine  Corby n  and 
under  that  name  she  chose  to  be  known  here.  This  document, 
which  if  she  is  dead  is  worth  a  fortune,  has  evidently  been 
kept  a  pretty  close  secret.  Now  that  it's  in  my  hands,  do  you 
agree  with  me  that  we  needn't  look  any  further  for  a  motive?" 

"I  should  say  not!  When  you  find  Michael  Power  you 
have  a  man  who  has  something  over  three  hundred  thousand 
pounds  to  gain  by  his  wife's  death,"  said  my  father. 

Begbie  nodded. 

"That's  true,"  he  said,  taking  back  the  will  and  laying  it 
beside  him.  "But  it  doesn't  go  all  the  way — because  if 
anything  has  happened,  or  should  happen  to  this  Michael 
Power,  then  Miss  Craddock — your  lordship's  other  guest, 
who  is  at  present  asleep  upstairs — inherits  everything.  The 
entire  fortune  would  go  to  her." 

"You'll  notice,  too,"  continued  Begbie,  "that  Elaine 
Power  didn't  seem  to  know  herself  whether  Power  is  dead 
or  living.  She  says  here — 'if  he  survives  me'.  .  .  .  Evidently 


WHO    IS    MICHAEL    POWER?  I93 

she  was  separated  from  him,  and  it  looks  as  if  he  wasn't  a 
very  satisfactory  husband — yet  she  would  not,  or  at  any  rate 
did  not,  leave  him  out  of  her  will.  She  leaves  him  half  her 
fortune  if  he  is  alive  to  claim  it." 

"And  here's  another  point,"  said  Begbie,  "it  doesn't  seem 
very  likely,  does  it,  that  Power  could  have  known  the  terms 
of  this  will,  for  it's  only  six  days  old." 

"My  good  Begbie!"  exclaimed  my  father,  "how  can  I  tell 
what  Michael  Power  knew  or  didn't  know;  I  never  heard  of 
him  till  this  moment." 

"Never  heard  of  him?" 

"No!" 

"Nor  that  Elaine  Corbyn  was  a  married  woman — when 
you  signed  as  witness  to  this  will?" 

"No;  and  I  never  even  knew  that  it  was  a  will.  Shall  I 
explain?" 

"If  you  please,"  said  Begbie. 

"Five  days  ago — it  was  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening — 
Miss  Corbyn  and  I  were  alone  in  this  room;  she  asked  me 
to  witness  her  signature  to  a  document.  She  didn't  tell  me 
what  it  was,  and  I  asked  no  questions;  it's  the  sort  of  thing 
one's  often  asked  to  do  for  people,  and  for  all  I  knew  it  was 
a  share  certificate  or  a  lease.  She  had  the  thing  with  her,  and 
she  signed  it  sitting  at  that  desk  by  the  window." 

"She  called  to  me,  moved  her  chair  a  little  to  one  side  to 
make  room  for  me,  gave  me  her  fountain -pen,  and  I  signed 
where  she  indicated.  The  top  half  of  the  paper  was  folded 
over,  so  far  as  I  remember.  Anyway,  I  never  gave  the  matter 
two  thoughts  until  now.  It  didn't  occur  to  me  it  could  have 
any  bearing  on  this  case  or  I  should  have  told  you." 

"But  didn't  it  seem  strange  to  you.  Lord  Trent,  when  you 
wrote  your  name  here  opposite  hers,  that  she  should  sign 
herself  Elaine  Corbyn  Power?"  said  Begbie,  "since  you 
didn't  know  her  by  that  name?" 


194  BLOOD    MONEY 

"It  certainly  would  have  if  I'd  noticed  it — but  there  was 
a  slip  of  blotting  paper  under  her  hand  as  she  held  the  paper 
for  me  to  sign  and  covered  the  last  word,  all  I  saw  was 
'Elaine  Corby n.'  I  suppose  it's  all  she  intended  me  to  see, 
and  as  a  second  witness  was  necessary,  at  Miss  Corbyn's 
request  I  sent  for  my  housekeeper  who  was  the  only  person 
available,  and  she  signed  too.  Would  you  like  to  see  her — I've 
no  doubt  she'll  tell  you  the  same?" 

"I've  no  doubt  she  will,"  agreed  Begbie,  pressing  the  bell, 
"but  we'll  have  her  in  now,  with  your  permission,  and  put 
it  on  record." 

Mrs.  Jessop  appeared  promptly.  She  took  not  the  slightest 
notice  of  Begbie,  until  my  father  requested  her  to  answer  his 
questions.  She  confirmed  everything  Dad  had  said.  She  was 
not  disconcerted  by  anything  that  was  asked  of  her.  Begbie 
kept  strictly  to  the  matter  of  the  signature  and  was  very 
brief  with  her.  She  said  she  had  been  called  in  by  his  lordship 
to  sign  something  for  Miss  Corbyn;  she  had  seen  Miss 
Corbyn's  signature,  she  had  noticed  nothing  unusual  about 
it.  She  could  not  remember  any  details,  but  she  thought 
most  of  the  paper  was  kept  covered  up.  She  had  not 
attempted  to  pry  into  it;  it  was  not  her  place.  She  vouched 
for  her  own  signature. 

"That  will  do,  Mrs.  Jessop.  You  may  go,"  said  Begbie. 
She  curtseyed  to  my  father  and  sailed  out,  rustling  in  black 
silk.  I  noticed  she  had  changed  her  dress. 

"That  was  necessary,"  said  Begbie  dryly,  "for  this  paper, 
if  it  is  valid,  is  worth  £1,200,000.  Six  million  dollars." 

"/s  it  valid?"  I  exclaimed,  breaking  in,  "Surely  anyone 
signing  a  will,  must  declare  it  to  be  his  will  before  the 
witnesses  who  sign  it — or  it's  a  wash-out!" 

"Is  that  the  law.  Inspector?"  said  my  father.  "I  am  a  child 
in  these  matters." 

"No,"  replied  Begbie.  "Otherwise,  Mr.  Rolfe,  any  two 


WHO    IS    MICHAEL    POWER?  195 

witnesses  who  got  together  and  declared  they  didn't  know 
what  they  were  signing  could  upset  any  will  ever  made.  If 
you  benefited  under  this  will,  Lord  Trent " 

"But  I  do  not,"  returned  my  father. 

"Just  so,"  said  Begbie  grimly,  "if  the  witnesses  to  a  will 
are  given  any  benefit  under  it,  then  the  will's  bad."  He  folded 
it  and  buttoned  it  into  his  breast  pocket.  "But  you  don't 
benefit." 

"I'm  afraid  Begbie,  you  think  me  a  fool  for  signing  a  paper 
without  even  knowing  what  it  was,"  said  my  father. 

"On  the  contrary,  Lord  Trent,"  said  Begbie,  rising,  "if  I 
may  say  so  I  consider  you  one  of  the  most  intelligent  people 
I  ever  met  in  my  life,  and  I've  had  some  experience.  I  hear 
the  car  outside — and  I'll  wish  you  good  night." 

My  father  opened  the  door  for  him. 

"Good  night,  Begbie.  You  have  lighted  up  this  case 
marvellously,  in  so  short  a  time.  Did  you  say  there  was  a 
message — a  letter  for  Miss  Craddock?" 

"I've  got  it  here.  It  will  be  delivered  to  her  first  thing  in 
the  morning,"  said  Begbie  as  he  went  out.  "Good  night, 
Mr.  Rolfe." 

My  father  drew  a  deep  breath  as  he  heard  the  car  shoot 
away  down  the  drive. 

"Energetic  Begbie.  He  has  taken  everything;  the  will,  the 
letter,  even  my  pistol,  and  I  rather  thought  he  was  going  to 
take  me.  Instead  of  which  he  pays  me  a  fulsome  comphment, 
and  drives  away  to  consult  Scotland  Yard.  By  the  way,  Ken, 
which  do  you  consider  me  to  be,  a  fool,  a  crook,  or  merely  a 
very  intelligent  person?" 

"I  was  just  wondering,"  said  I,  "what  Begbie  meant  when 
he  said  you  knew  who  Linke  was." 

"Did  he?  So  he  did;  I  remember.  But  Begbie  gives  me 
credit  for  such  a  lot  of  knowledge.  If  the  police  know  who 
Linke  was,  they'll  declare  it  when  they  see  fit;  but  I'm  glad 


196  BLOOD    MONEY 

you  asked  Jenny  to  be  your  wife  before  you  ever  heard  of  this 
will." 

"I'd  rather  not  discuss  Jenny  with  you." 

"I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Ken,  though  you  won't  believe  me. 
I  would  have  been  just  as  pleased  at  you  and  Jenny  getting 
together,  if  this  cursed  business  had  never  happened,  and 
the  will  had  not  existed.  I'll  remind  you  of  that  later."  His 
eyes  twinkled  at  me  oddly.  "But  there  is  one  thing  that 
impresses  me  about  this  case,  and  it's  just  what  I  expected." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Everybody — except  yourself  of  course — within  and 
without  the  circle,  crooks,  police,  women  witnesses  even, 
each  and  every  one  is  playing  for  his  or  her  own  hand, 
stacking  the  cards,  bluffing,  not  one  of  them  playing  a  straight 
game.     It's  been  so  from  the  first.  All,  my  boy — all!" 

"What  do  you  imagine  they  are  after?" 

My  father  smiled. 

"What  are  we  all  after?"  he  demanded.  "Money:  or  its 
equivalents,  credit — promotion — safety — success.  People  are 
like  that,  when  you  get  up  against  big  elemental  motives  as  in 
this  case." 

"You  have  a  cheerful  opinion  of  your  fellow-creatures," 
said  I. 

"I  have  no  opinion  of  my  fellow-creatures,"  said  my 
father,  "and  I'm  going  to  bed." 

When  he  had  gone  out,  I  switched  off  the  library  lights, 

id  stayed  for  a  moment  or  two  reflecting.  I  remembered 

lat  my  father  had  been  under  heavy  obligations  to  Elaine, 
Q^  j^nce  the  affair  of  Crieff  and  that  ,{^250  cheque.  It  was  so  long 
C/0      ago,  I  \m  almost  forgotten  it.  It  would  be  difficult  for  him  to 

^(Tpfuse  ^^  anything,  if  she  had  chosen  to  use  the  pull  she  had 
([^^rjiihig— though  he  was  a  hard  man  to  drive.  But  all  that 
r>   t;^e?StctSifling  in  the  light  of  what  had  happened  since. 
tPu  tZ  -^  8^^  d^^l  had  been  revealed,  but  one  thing  remained 

fe  \> 


WHO    IS    MICHAEL    POWER?  I97 

dark  as  the  pit.  Where  was  Elaine,  and  what  had  been  her 
fate?  No  one  had  answered  that. 

And  Jenny — what  would  all  this  money  mean  to  her, 
coming  the  way  it  did?  What  would  she  do? 

Utterly  weary,  I  went  out  into  the  hall,  but  braced  up  sud- 
denly as  I  saw  Tilden's  car  outside  the  porch.  Why  had  he 
come  back?  I  ran  anxiously  up  the  stairs,  and  met  him  coming 
out  of  Jenny's  room.  He  looked  dead  beat,  but  he  greeted  me 
much  more  amiably,  his  manner  had  altered  completely. 

"My  dear  chap!  Finished  my  round — looked  in  again,  just 
in  case.     Knew  how  you'd  be  feeling  about  it " 

"Is  she ?" 

"She's  all  right.  Sleeping  like  a  cherub." 

I  grabbed  hold  of  him  and  tried  to  thank  him;  suddenly  he 
seemed  to  spin  all  round  me,  everything  went  black,  and  I 
heard  his  voice  as  if  out  of  a  fog. 

"Hold  up,  man!  I've  enough  patients  on  my  hands 
already!" 

I  suppose  I  must  have  been  feehng  the  strain  a  bit;  never 
thought  I  should  go  under  like  that.  It  was  humiliating.  I 
don't  remember  anything  more  except  Tilden  giving  me  a 
drink  that  smelled  like  a  hospital,  as  I  sat  on  my  bed.  After 
that  a  soothing,  dreamless  oblivion. 


XXXIV 
THE  CABLEGRAM 

W  H  E  N  I  woke  the  sun  was  streaming  in  through  my  bed- 
room window.  I  lay  blinking  for  a  few  moments,  shook 
off  a  sort  of  stuffiness  in  the  head,  and  got  a  shock  when  I 
glanced  at  the  watch  on  the  table  beside  me.  It  was  past 
eleven. 

The  events  of  the  night  before  came  crowding  back  on  me 
in  a  flood,  but  my  first  waking  thought  was  for  Jenny,  through 
a  mist  of  semi-consciousness. 

I  thrust  a  leg  out  of  bed  and  grabbed  the  bell-push;  my 
thumb  had  only  been  on  the  button  a  few  seconds  when 
there  was  a  tap  at  the  door  and  Inspector  Palke  came  in,  like 
a  man  sure  of  his  welcome,  as  cordially  and  confidently  as 
if  he  had  known  me  for  years. 

There  was  a  folded  newspaper  under  his  arm;  he  looked 
at  me  with  that  magnetic  smile  of  his  and  I  blinked  up  at  him 
with  dubious  eyes.  I  felt  I  had  a  friend  in  Palke,  but  a  friend 
with  a  cutting  edge  to  him.  To  find  a  policeman  at  one's 
bedside  on  waking  is  a  disconcerting  thing. 

"Had  a  good  night?  That's  fine!"  he  said.  "Yes? — I've  seen 
Miss  Craddock;  your  turn  next.  I've  a  message  for  you.  But 
I  want  a  little  talk  with  you  first." 

"How  is  she? . . .  And  Elaine,  haven't  you  news  of  Elaine? 
— made  any  arrest?  What's  the  message?" 

"No  arrest — Fish  slipped  through  the  net.  The  mes- 
sage  "  he  stopped  short.  "Yes,  come  in!" 

The  maid  was  at  the  door  with  the  tea  that  came  auto- 
matically in  response  to  my  ring,  part  of  the  routine  of 
Stanways;  I  believe  if  the  judgement  trumpet  were  sounding 
they  would  bring  the  tea  along  as  soon  as  one  woke.  Palke 
took  the  tray  and  set  it  on  my  bed. 


THE    CABLEGRAM  I99 

"Get  that  into  you;  you're  in  the  want  of  it,"  he  said.  "Not 
a  word  till  it's  down." 

He  stepped  across  and  locked  the  door;  to  hurry  him  I 
reached  for  the  tea  and  gulped  down  a  cupful  and  some 
biscuits;  I  certainly  wanted  it.  He  watched  me  with  curious 
eyes ,  and  handed  me  a  little  grey  envelope  with  my  name  on  it. 

"This  is  no  part  of  my  duty — passing  messages  between 
Miss  Craddock  and  you.  But  I  was  never  a  purist  for  duty,  as 
they'll  tell  you  at  the  Yard.  That's  for  you." 

I  tore  the  note  open  and  read: 

"In  the  face  of  all  our  trouble,  I'm  sending  you  this 
because  I  love  you,  Ken.  Try  not  to  worry  too  much,  dear. 
And  I  would  put  my  hand  in  the  fire  for  your  father.  I  am 
being  guided  by  Inspector  Palke,  and  I  beg  you,  do  the  same. 

"Love, 

"Jenny." 

It  set  my  heart  singing.  Loyal,  loving  little  Jenny!  It 
was  a  gleam  of  light  breaking  through  clouds  of  tragedy.  Not 
even  a  message  from  a  C.I.D.  Inspector  dovetailed  into  a  note 
like  that,  could  spoil  it  for  me.  Indeed  old  Palke,  standing 
opposite  me  with  a  face  like  a  lean  bronze  idol,  was  invested 
with  a  halo  of  romance  and  hope. 

"Cheer  up,  Rolfe,"  he  said  approvingly.  I  had  bounced  out 
of  bed  as  if  he  had  galvanised  me. 

"But  why,  man!  Why  need  she  write  at  all?  Where  is  she?" 

"Come  over  here."  He  beckoned  to  me  standing  by  the 
window  curtains.  "You've  just  time.  Thought  you  might  like 
to  signal  her  good-bye.  Lord  knows  when  you'll  see  her  again." 

I  heard  the  whirr  of  a  motor  as  I  hurried  across  to  the 
window.  A  closed  black  car  was  making  its  exit  down  the  park 
drive;  I  had  a  glimpse  of  Jenny's  head,  she  was  looking  up  at 
the  window  and  she  waved  to  me.  A  pretty  figure  I  must 
have  looked,  blinking  stupidly  there  with  my  pyjama  collar 


200  BLOOD    MONEY 

on  end  and  my  hair  ruffled.  The  car  swerved  round  the  bend 
of  the  avenue  and  was  gone. 

"I  want  her  clear  of  this  place  and  out  of  harm's  way,"  said 
Palke.  "She'll  be  watched  and  I  think  you  can  make  your 
mind  easy  about  her.  It  isn't  necessary  you  or  anyone  else 
should  know  where  Miss  Craddock  is,  for  a  while.  Let  it 
alone,  or  you'll  do  more  harm  than  good.  We  don't  want  any 
more  fatalities.  Tell  yourself  that  all's  well,  and  be  content." 

It's  easy  enough  to  tell  a  man  to  be  content.  I  looked  at  the 
empty  road,  and  at  the  letter  again.  Then  I  noticed  a  P.T.O. 
at  the  foot  of  the  note.  I  turned  the  page  quickly.  On  the 
inner  leaf  were  four  brief  lines  more,  in  Jenny's  handwriting. 
And  as  I  read  this  second  message  I  gasped  as  if  a  pailful  of 
cold  water  had  been  flung  in  my  face.  I'd  thought  that  this 
infernal  case  had  prepared  me  for  any  shock. 

I  put  the  letter  down  and  stared  across  at  Palke.  He  was 
watching  me  with  anxious  eyes,  and  a  faint,  slow  smile. 

"Rolfe,  what  that  letter  may  contain  is  your  business,"  he 
said,  "but  you'll  admit  it  is  mine  too.  Lock  it  up  in  your 
mind.  Absolute  secrecy;  absolute  silence  remember.  If  you 
breathe  a  word  of  it  to  any  living  soul,  you'll  wreck  my  case 
and  trip  up  the  heels  of  justice." 

I  nodded,  folding  the  note  in  my  fingers. 

"You'd  better  burn  that,"  said  Palke. 

"Sooner  burn  myself!"  said  I,  "This  letter's  mine."  I 
locked  the  note  carefully  away  in  a  back  drawer  of  the  old 
tall-boys  chest  by  my  bedside.  "And  now — Elaine!  What  can 
you  do?" 

"There's  only  one  thing  left  to  be  done,"  said  Palke.  "I'll 
not  be  content  with  getting  the  man  who  shot  her — if  I  ever 
do.  There  are  four  people  at  least — there  may  be  more — who 
planned  the  murder  of  Elaine." 

"I  can't  leave  you  out  of  this,  Rolfe.  You're  dipped  so  deep 
in  the  case  now,  that  I've  got  to  carry  you  along  with  me. 


THE    CABLEGRAM  20I 

Will  you  trust  me  entirely?  I  want  your  help.  There'll  be 
some  risks — but  consider  the  risk  that  girl  took!  I'll  let  you 
into  this  case,  step  by  step  till  we  finish  it  together." 

"That's  good  enough!"  I  said,  and  stopped  short,  watching 
the  man's  keen  face  and  pleasant  yet  ruthless  eyes,  "with  one 
reservation,  Palke." 

"Well?" 

"If  you  are  after  my  father,  you'll  get  no  help  from  me.  I'll 
see  you  in  hell  first," 

Palke 's  eyes  flickered.  He  looked  at  me  with  a  dry  little  smile. 

"  Do  you  really  think,  Rolfe,  that  I  would  ask  a  man  to  hunt 
his  own  father?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I'd  put  it  past  you.  Begbie  is  after  him." 

Palke  smiled. 

"Lord  Trent  has  been  a  little  too  deep  for  Begbie.  I'm 
letting  Begbie  stand  down;  the  Linke  case  is  plenty  to  occupy 
him,  and  he's  handling  it  quite  efficiently.  But  get  that 
trouble  right  out  of  your  mind.  Your  father  had  no  hand  in 
the  removal  of  Elaine — that,  at  least  he  is  clear  of." 

I  sat  up,  gasping. 

"Palke!"  I  said  remorsefully,  "what  a  fool  I've  been!" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Palke,  "a  very  natural  mistake  on  your 
part.  In  fact,  until  I  got  back  last  night  I  was  none  too  sure 
myself.  And  should  I  find  I've  made  an  error  I  will  own  to  it; 
you  shall  have  fair  warning.  By  the  way,  has  it  occurred  to 
you  who  the  late  Linke  is — or  rather  was?" 

"Yes — he  was  Michael  Power;  Elaine's  husband." 

Palke  shook  his  head. 

"A  close  shot — but  just  misses  it.  We'll  come  to  that  in  a 
minute.  Now  we're  getting  our  facts,  making  certainties  of 
them;  let  us  see  if  we  can  straighten  them  out  in  their  right 
order.  I'll  give  you  as  shortly  as  I  can  the  mainspring  of  the 
case,  which  is  the  story  of  Elaine's  marriage  with  Michael 
Power." 


XXXV 

ELAINE'S  MARRIAGE 

"  W  HEN  Elaine  Corbyn  was  twenty,"  said  Inspector  Palke, 
"she  kept  a  little  store  in  Gallwey,  which  is  a  one-cylinder 
town  up-country  in  Michigan.  She  had  not  only  to  keep 
herself  but  her  mother,  who  was  a  widow,  and  pretty  helpless 
at  that." 

"Michael  Power  lived  a  few  miles  off  at  Deer  Lake;  a  man 
of  forty-five,  an  estate-agent  in  a  small  way.  She  was  an 
uncommon  pretty  girl,  and  he  made  her  the  offer  which  is 
said  to  be  the  highest  compliment  a  man  can  pay  a  woman; 
there  are  some  compliments  dear  at  any  price.  She  turned 
him  down.  Elaine  wasn't  looking  for  trouble.  But  she  found 
it." 

"Her  mother  fell  dangerously  ill.  She  was  past  any  help 
from  the  State  hospital,  and  Elaine  went  to  a  specialist.  But 
you  know  what  specialists  are.  It  was  one  of  those  illnesses 
poor  folks  should  be  careful  not  to  get.  She  had  to  have  a 
change  of  climate;  California  or  Florida,  and  treatment 
lasting  months.  It  couldn't  be  done  under  a  couple  of  thousand 
dollars.  Elaine  couldn't  have  raised  three  hundred." 

"Then  Power  stepped  in.  If  she  would  marry  him  right 
away,  he'd  put  up  the  two  thousand.  He  wasn't  a  rich  man  at 
all.  But  it  got  him  like  that.  Asked  her  to  consider  it.  She  did 
— hoping  there'd  be  some  other  way  out.  There  wasn't. 
Power  knew  that.  But  he  didn't  drive  her  too  hard." 

"  'You  hate  the  idea  of  marrying  me,'  he  said,  'or  at  any 
rate  of  living  with  me,  now.  Maybe  you  think  I'm  taking  an 
unfair  advantage,  and  you'd  never  forget  it.  I'd  like  you  to 
know  me  better  than  that,  and  I'll  make  a  compact  with  you." 

"Til  let  you  have  the  two  thousand  now,  to  show  I  trust 
you.  We'll  be  married  right  away,  and  the  marriage  will  be 


ei,aine's  marriage  203 

quite  private;  no  one's  affair  but  your's  and  mine.  You  can 
leave  me,  if  you  wish,  as  soon  as  they've  made  us  man  and 
wife.  You  can  keep  your  own  name,  tell  no  one,  just  keep 
going  on  as  Elaine  Corby n.  And  I'll  never  claim  you  till  you 
say  the  word.  A  man  can't  ever  make  his  wife  live  with  him, 
if  she  doesn't  want  to." 

"  'Take  your  mother  away,  and  save  her.  You've  needed  her 
most  of  your  life.  Now  she  needs  you.  I'll  be  content  to  wait.' " 

"That  shook  Elaine.  She  felt  Power  was  a  great  little  man." 

"  'Now,  I'll  tell  you  your  share  in  the  compact,*  said 
Power.  'Since  you  don't  care  for  me  enough  yet  to  live  with 
me,  I'll  make  a  will  in  your  favour,  leaving  all  I  have  to  my 
wife — Elaine  Power.  We'll  draw  it  now,  it  will  be  signed  and 
valid  as  soon  as  we're  on  the  register." 

"  'You'll  do  as  much  for  me.  You'll  make  a  will  of  your  own, 
leaving  anything  you  have  or  become  possessed  of  to  your 
husband,  Michael  Power.  You'll  stand  by  that  will,  as  long  as 
I  stand  by  mine.  Isn't  that  fair,  as  between  man  and  wife?' " 

"She  had  nothing  and  was  never  likely  to  have.  She  came 
of  poor  folk." 

"  Tut  it  like  this,'  he  said,  'it's  so  you  shan't  feel  you  are 
taking  something  for  nothing,  say  it's  an  acknowledgement 
against  the  settlement  I'm  giving  you.  All  you're  thinking  of 
now  is  your  mother;  but  there  are  two  sides  to  a  bargain. 
This  two  thousand  is  just  the  half  of  all  I  have.  And  here's 
my  share  for  you  right  now,  Elaine.' " 

"He  put  the  money  down  on  the  table.  Two  thousand  in 
hundred  dollar  bills.  The  price  of  her  mother's  life." 

"She  saw  she  must  take  it;  but  she  made  one  condition  of 
her  own." 

"  'No  one  can  be  sure  of  what's  going  to  happen,'  she  said. 
'If  I  don't  survive  my  mother  I  won't  take  the  risk  of  leaving 
her  with  nothing.  I'll  leave  you  the  half  of  whatever  I  have 
and  you  can  do  the  same.* " 


204  BLOOD    MONEY 

**  'That  goes,'  said  Power.  'Fair  to  both  of  us.  Let's  get  it 
done.' " 

"He  drew  up  the  two  wills.  Half  whatever  he  died 
possessed  of,  to  his  wife,  Elaine  Power.  Half  hers,  to  him." 

"  'There's  one  thing  more,'  he  said.  'Fetch  down  your 
mother's  Bible." 

"  'Now,'  said  Power,  'you'll  lay  your  hand  on  the  Book, 
and  swear  that  so  long  as  I  live  you  will  never  revoke  that 
will;  that  you'll  stand  honestly  by  those  terms  whatever 
happens.  And  I'll  swear  the  same.' " 

"Two  days  later  they  were  married — away  in  another 
town  where  they  weren't  known.  Their  names  were  set  to  the 
wills  and  witnessed;  they  separated  at  the  door,  according  to 
contract.  Elaine  went  back  to  Gallwey,  sold  up  what  she 
had  .  .  .  told  her  mother  she  had  raised  enough,  and  took  her 
away  to  Santa  Barbara.  She'd  plenty  to  cover  the  expenses 
and  the  treatment.  And  she  found  work.  Her  mother  re- 
covered. At  the  end  of  the  year  she  was  well." 

"And  now  it  was  up  to  Elaine  to  meet  her  contract.  Was 
she  to  say  the  word,  and  become  Power's  wife  in  fact  as  well 
as  in  name?  She  hated  the  idea,  and  no  doubt  hated  herself 
for  feeUng  she  couldn't  meet  it." 

"But  why?"  I  broke  in,  "wasn't  it  obvious  the  man  was  a 
damned  scoundrel?" 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  Palke,  "certainly  not  to  Elaine. 
You're  being  wise  after  the  event,  Rolfe.  Look  at  it  from 
her  point  of  view,  and  the  circumstances  she  was  in." 

"She  wrote  to  Power;  would  he  give  her  time?  She  put  it 
up  to  him." 

"Power  replied.  He  seemed  as  generous  and  considerate 
as  ever.  He  said,  wait  awhile.  He  would  give  her  a  year  to 
consider.  He  wouldn't  wish  her  to  come  to  him  unwillingly." 

"Any  kind  of  respite  was  welcome  to  her.  She  wrote  to 
him  gratefully;  got  no  reply.  At  the  end  of  another  ten 


ELAINE'S    MARRIAGE  205 

months  her  mother,  who   had  seemed  good  for  a  long 
life,  died  " 

"Before  she  died,  Elaine  told  her  the  story.  I  suppose  her 
mother  saw  there  was  something  wrong,  and  got  it  out  of  her. 
She  felt  she  couldn't  keep  it  to  herself  any  longer;  it  was  a 
confession.  Her  mother  was  a  religious  woman;  an  oath  taken 
on  the  Book  was  inviolable  to  her.  She  couldn't  urge  her 
daughter  to  a  life  of  unhappiness.  'But,'  said  her  mother,  'if 
you  feel  you  cannot  be  his  wife,  at  least  you  must  hold  to  the 
terms  you  promised  him;  as  he  has  kept  his  bond  faithfully 
and  trusted  you,  you  can  never  break  yours.'  Elaine  agreed 
with  that." 

"She  met  the  loss  we  all  have  to  face,  soon  or  late,  and 
now  she  was  alone.  No  one  but  herself  to  depend  on — not 
that  that  mattered,  she'd  the  pluck  of  ten.  But  where  was 
Power?" 

"For  months  there  had  been  no  word  of  him.  She  made 
enquiries.  The  folks  in  his  home  town  knew  nothing  of  him; 
he  had  left  long  ago.  There  were  rumours  that  he  was  dead 
— but  nothing  definite — nothing  that  she  could  verify. 
Nobody  seemed  interested  in  Michael  Power.  There  was 
an  account  of  his  at  the  Deer  Lake  branch  bank — nearly 
empty,  and  not  drawn  on  for  a  year." 

"If  he  was  dead,  and  had  anything  to  leave,  she  could 
claim  under  his  will.  She  wouldn't  have  done  that  anyway. 
She  told  nobody  of  her  relations  with  Michael  Power;  she 
kept  her  secret.  And  feeling,  evidently  with  some  remorse, 
that  she  hadn't  treated  him  over  well,  she  came  east  to  New 
York — leaving  her  will  banked  at  Gallwey,  where  it  had  been 
since  she  was  married." 

"In  New  York  she  met  up  with  Jane  Craddock,  who'd 
been  a  friend  of  hers  in  the  early  days  in  Michigan;  Elaine 
got  a  stenographer's  job  that  Jane  found  for  her." 

"Then  came  that  next  most  amazing  event  in  Elaine's 


206  BLOOD    MONEY 

life,  and  by  a  long  way  the  least  expected.  She  found  herself 
a  rich  woman.  A  relative  who  was  believed  to  have  died 
years  ago  on  the  Mexican  border,  and  whom  nobody  had 
ever  supposed  to  have  a  bean,  left  her  a  freight  of  money. 
His  story — the  story  of  Benjy  Slade — is  a  romance  in  itself 
but  all  that  concerns  you  and  me  to-day,  Rolfe,  is  that 
Elaine  Corbyn  was  his  only  living  relative;  she  inherited  six 
million  dollars." 

"The  first  thing  she  did  when  she  had  the  news  was  to 
raise  money  against  her  legacy — all  she  could  get  for  a  start 
was  four  thousand  before  her  claim  was  proved.  She  wrote 
again  to  the  Deer  Lake  Bank  at  once,  for  news  of  Power." 

"She  wrote  under  her  own  name;  Elaine  Corbyn.  Gave 
nothing  away." 

"The  bank  acknowledged  receipt,  but  replied  they  didn't 
know  where  Power  was,  though  his  account  was  still  open. 
All  enquiries  failed." 

"Still  no  Power!  The  thing  was  hanging  over  her,  same  as 
ever.  Legally  she  was  a  married  woman,  but  actually — ^well, 
what  was  she?  There  were  ways  out  of  it,  of  course,  but  they 
couldn't  be  taken  in  a  hurry,  even  if  she  chose  those  ways. 
It  was  much  more  disquieting  to  be  left  in  the  dark  like  this, 
waiting " 

I  crashed  in  again. 

"She  still  held  on  to  those  terms — after  she  knew  she'd 
been  cunningly  fooled  by  this  crook?  She  must  have  wiped 
the  whole  thing  out;  will  and  all.  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  think  all  folks  are  alike,  Rolfe?"  said  Palke. 
"You're  suggesting  now  what  you'd  have  done — or  think 
you  would  have  ...  or  what  I'd  have  done.  Cut  the  knot  at 
once,  go  back  on  everything  she'd  sworn,  of  course;  cancel 
the  will  before  witnesses " 

"She  should  have  burned  it!" 

"And  having  done  so,  make  another  one  cutting  him  out 


ELAINES    MARRIAGE  ZQTj 

altogether,  eh?  If  she  died  intestate,  leaving  no  will  at  all, 
her  husband  would  inherit  everything  she'd  got,  instead  of 
only  half?  Well,  she  just  felt  she  couldn't  do  things  that  way." 

"T4iere  are  people  who  regard  a  contract  and  an  oath  as 
something  inviolable  and  unbreakable,  so  long  as  the  other 
party  doesn't  break  it.  She  could  have  had  her  lawyers 
break  it — much  the  same  thing.  I  suppose  you  didn't  happen  to 
notice,  Rolfe,  that  Elaine  Corbyn  was  a  woman  with  a  strong 
will  and  plenty  of  courage;  a  belief  that  she  could  handle 
her  own  affairs  better  than  anyone  else?" 

"I  should  think  I  did  notice  it!  Go  on — what  did  she  do?** 

"She  had  already  decided  to  clear  out  and  get  away  from 
it  all.  To  leave  for  Europe  and  live  abroad  for  a  year.  But 
she  took  certain  precautions,  for  I  think  she  must  have 
sensed  danger." 

"In  New  York  she  got  acquainted  with  a  woman  who 
knew  England  well,  who  suggested  an  introduction  to  Lord 
Trent.  She  could  stay  with  him  as  a  paying  guest  at  Stanways 
House." 

"To  Elaine  it  seemed  the  very  thing  she  wanted.  Better 
than  beating  around  in  hotels.  The  arrangements  were  made 
privately,  and  as  soon  as  probate  was  through  and  she  had 
control  of  her  fortune  she  sailed  for  England,  taking  Jenny 
Craddock  with  her  as  attendant.  The  first  time  she  struck 
trouble  was  on  the  drive  from  Euston;  that  job  was  a  raw 
business  but  we  can  leave  it  for  the  moment  and  get  on. 
Then  there  was  the  spy  you  caught  sneaking  round  the  house 
a  week  ago — or  rather  failed  to  catch,  but  nothing  really 
serious  happened  till  that  appalling  affair  of  last  night." 

"It  was  quick  work,  Rolfe,  but  there's  no  risk  crooks 
won't  take  for  a  prize  like  that.  Doesn't  it  look  very  much  as 
if  they'd  got  away  with  it?" 

"But  Power!  If  he's  living ?" 

"Certainly  he's  living.  We've  been  pretty  quick  too. 


208  BLOOD    MONEY 

In  fact  we're  just  a  shade  ahead,  and  we've  already  placed 
Michael." 

"Then  you've  got  him!  He's  arrested?" 

"Why,  no.  What  should  we  do  with  him,  if  we  arrested 
him?  He  has  a  three  thousand  mile  alibi,  you  see — our 
Michael  Power." 

"His  work,  clearly!  The  head  of  the  gang." 

"That  will  take  a  bit  of  proving,"  said  Palke,  "for  Michael 
Power  has  been  in  a  Canadian  jail  eighteen  months — which 
goes  some  way  to  account  for  his  wife  not  finding  him.  He 
was  only  released  three  days  ago.  But  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
we  got  further  news  of  him." 

There  was  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door.  A  smooth-looking 
young  stranger  in  grey  tweeds  opened  the  door  in  response 
to  Palke 's  answer,  and  beckoned  to  him  respectfully. 

"Come  in,  Jim,"  said  Palke.  "You  don't  mind,  do  you,  Mr. 
Rolfe?" 

"Another  DX  cable,  sir — 'phoned  through  from  Wheat- 
bridge,"  said  the  young  man,  handing  him  a  slip  of  paper. 
"Decoded  it  to  save  time." 

Palke  glanced  at  the  sHp,  and  nodded. 

"All  right  as  far  as  it  goes," he  said.  "Thank  you,  Jim.  Get 
back  to  the  gun-room  telephone;  you  can  smoke  if  you  like. 
Are  you  comfortable  there?" 

"Nice  quiet  room,"  said  the  plain-clothes  man  as  he 
backed  out  and  closed  the  door.  Palke  handed  me  the  slip  of 
paper. 

"15  November.     8.10  a.m." 
"New  York.     DX.2. 

"Michael  Power  sailed  Carthusian  for  Liverpool, 
5  p.m.  yesterday." 

"Collins.  JJs." 


XXXVI 
SHADOWED 

"Power  on  his  way  here?"  I  exclaimed. 

"Sailed  last  night.  That's  from  Central  Office,  New  York. 
JJ5  is  Captain  Slade  Collins,  and  if  you  see  it  on  a  DX  cable, 
it's  so." 

"Strange  how  things  fall  out,  isn't  it  Rolfe — if  Linke 
hadn't  been  shot  in  Black  Spinney  at  the  back  of  your  house, 
we  probably  shouldn't  know  that  Michael  Power  is  now 
clear  of  the  Hudson  River,  and  heading  east,"  said  Palke 
filling  his  pipe. 

"Get  on  to  this,  Rolfe.  Allowing  for  the  difference  in  time 
between  here  and  New  York,  which  is  five  hours,  it  looks 
impossible,  doesn't  it,  that  when  Michael  sailed  he  could  have 
already  known  himself  to  be  a  widower  .  .  .  for  he  couldn't 
know  what  happened  at  Stan  ways  last  night,  London  time, 
and  got  away  from  the  West  River  Pier  or  even  from 
Quarantine  down  in  the  bay,  at  five." 

"If  those  times  are  correct  he  couldn't  possibly  know!"  I 
exclaimed. 

Palke  ejected  a  thin  stream  of  smoke  from  his  nostrils;  his 
eyes  glinted  at  me  through  the  blue  haze. 

"So.  It  looks  on  the  face  of  it,  as  if  the  right  hand  of  this 
gang  didn't  know  what  its  left  hand  was  doing,"  he  said. 
"But  is  that  likely?  No.  However,  we  know  where  Michael 
Power  is.  He  is  crossing  the  Atlantic  in  a  halo  of  innocence." 

"Innocent!"  said  I,  "if  he  expects  to  get  away  with  that  he 
must  be  the  king  of  optimists." 

"Why?" 

"Innocent  or  guilty,  what  will  his  claim  on  his  wife's  estate 
be  worth?" 

"Three  million  dollars,  Rolfe.  Put  yourself  in  his  place; 


2IO  BLOOD    MONEY 

you  are  married,  your  wife  is  murdered  to-night — or  dies  by 
her  own  hand — 4,000  miles  from  here.  No  power  of  the  law 
can  prevent  you  inheriting,  unless  there's  some  sure  proof 
of  guilt  brought  home  to  you.  Risk?  No  doubt  there'd  be 
some  small  risk.  But  three  milUon  dollars  are  a  lot  of  dollars." 

"But  now  you've  got  Power  taped " 

"I  tell  you.  Power  by  himself  is  no  use  to  us.  Where  we 
fail  up  till  now,  is  that  we  haven't  a  vestige  in  the  way  of 
evidence  to  trace  those  who  did  the  job.  Unless  we  get  them 
before  Power  arrives,  we  shall  never  get  them.  Who  are  they? 
I  don't  know.  And  when  I  don't  know  a  fact  I  own  to  it.  We 
have  got  to  do  our  best." 

"Now  leave  Michael  Power  on  the  S.S.  Carthusian  for  a 
minute,  Rolfe,  and  just  turn  your  mind  back  to  his  relations 
with  Elaine — to  that  first  year  of  his  marriage.  The  terms, 
the  separation,  the  long  delay — what  strikes  you  as  the  most 
significant  feature  of  all  that?" 

"He  knew  all  the  while  that  sooner  or  later  money  would 
be  coming  her  way;  he  knew  what  she  didn't  know  and  was 
biding  his  time." 

"That's  obvious,"  said  Palke  impatiently,  "but  why  allow 
himself  to  be  put  off  so  easily,  or  wait  so  long?  In  his  place, 
wouldn't  you  have  made  sure  of  her}  The  natural  thing  to 
do.  He  could  have  done  it.  Why  didn't  he?  Some  strong 
reason.  What?" 

I  reflected;  it  didn't  take  me  long. 

"The  other  woman!"  said  I.  Palke  laughed. 

"There's  the  makings  of  a  detective  in  you  after  all,"  said 
he.  "Yes,  in  this  sort  of  case  that  simple  rule  doesn't  often 
fail.  There  was  another  woman,  a  driving  force  in  Michael 
Power's  life  three  years  ago.  What  do  we  know  of  her? 
Nothing.  But  she  isn't  a  deduction,  she  is  no  theory.  She's 
flesh  and  blood." 

"There  was  a  woman,  quite  certainly,  outside  the  morning- 


SHADOWED  211 

room  last  night;  though  she  had  only  twenty  minutes  start  of 
us  there's  nothing  left  to  swear  by  but  a  blurred  footmark  or 
two.  There's  almost  as  little  trace  of  the  gunman.  Nothing 
known  of  either  of  them.  It's  sure  they  must  have  come  over 
from  the  other  side,  and  they  were  no  amateurs.  New  York 
always  lets  us  know  when  anyone  comes  over  who's  likely  to 
interest  us.  But  those  two  got  past  with  it.  They  were  never 
reported.  And  they  arrived  here  well  ahead  of  Elaine,  they 
must  have  been  aware  that  she  was  coming  not  only  to 
England,  but  to  Stan  ways.  Did  they  travel  on  the  same  boat 
with  her?  I  believe  not.  It's  much  more  likely  that  the  woman 
was  here  all  along.  And  she's  as  elusive  as  a  ghost.  Unless  I'm 
much  mistaken,  she's  the  brains  of  the  gang.  Unless  they're 
under  the  skull  of  Michael.  She  certainly  has  the  courage. 
But  none  of  them  seem  to  be  wanting  in  that." 

"And  her  partner  here.  The  Other  Man?"  I  suggested. 

"Maybe.  But  perhaps  just  a  hireling — a  gunman." 

"Why  were  they  both  on  the  spot  together?  It  only 
doubled  the  risk." 

"On  the  contrary.  Such  a  job  as  that  is  seldom  done  single- 
handed.  Moreover,  these  crooks  never  trust  each  other.  But 
I'm  not  guessing  at  their  motives  nor  their  reasons;  and  now 
we  come  to  Linke. 

"Here  we're  on  solid  ground.  There's  an  Official  Memory 
sitting  in  an  office  overlooking  the  Thames;  it  never  forgets 
anything,  it  indexed  Spike  O'Dowd  in  fifteen  minutes, 
although  he  had  no  face.  But  it  hadn't  any  record  of  Linke. 
There's  another  Memory,  just  as  sure,  within  a  gunshot  of 
the  Hudson  River.  And  when  its  sensitive  antennae  were 
touched  by  a  message — a  docket  came  back  quick  with 
contacts  from  Manhattan,  St.  Louis,  and  Los  Angeles,  There 
was  no  longer  any  mystery  about  Linke,  beyond  the  matter 
of  his  killing.  I  didn't  ask  for  a  new  inquest;  I  kept  the  curtain 
drawn.  So  we  get  a  step  farther." 


212  BLOOD    MONEY 

"Linke  has  held  several  jobs  as  personal  servant  or  valet; 
sometimes  as  a  courier.  And  he  has  served  three  terms  of 
imprisonment;  in  each  case  for  blackmail.  He's  not  an  easy 
person  to  trace  and  he  has  several  aliases;  but  the  one  that 
fits  him  best  and  he  has  a  right  to  is  Power.  Stephen  Power, 
brother,  so  it  seems,  to  Michael.  But  rather  a  different 
proposition." 

"Why,  Palke,  you've  got  the  whole  case  in  your  hands  if 
you  know  that!" 

"I'd  give  two  fingers  if  I  had.  You  overlooked  the  point 
that  Linke  is  dead,  and  whatever  knowledge  he  had  died  with 
him.  He  was  installed  at  Stanways  before  his  allies,  the 
woman  and  her  partner,  arrived;  he  was  the  man  inside,  the 
inner  line  of  communication.  A  great  pity  he  is  dead,  one 
wonders  what  he  might  have  told  us — and  if  it  would  have 
been  the  truth.  He  knew  a  great  deal.  And  he  held  some- 
thing up  his  sleeve.  It's  a  way  all  these  sort  of  people 
have." 

Palke  looked  at  me  shrewdly. 

"Isn't  there  one  little  thing  you  haven't  told  me,  Rolfe? 
Didn't  Linke  make  some  sort  of  a  proposition  to  you — try  to 
get  an  offer  out  of  you — the  night  he  was  fired  .  .  .  And  just 
before  quitting?" 

He  was  right  as  usual.  I  had  kept  that  one  thing  back — on 
my  father's  account  more  than  mine;  for  Linke 's  affair  hadn't 
seemed  to  matter  so  much  lately.  And  above  all  things  I 
hated  talking  about  that  last  fateful  interview.  Now  the  dead 
man  had  suddenly  taken  shape  again. 

"He  did,"  said  I,  and  forthwith  I  told  him  exactly  what 
had  taken  place  between  Linke  and  myself  the  last  time  I 
saw  him  alive. 

A  surprising  fellow,  Palke.  I  got  the  impression  I  was 
telling  him  what  he  already  knew,  and  when  I  had  finished, 
he  said: 


SHADOWED  213 

"Not  SO  bad.  There's  only  one  better  reply  you  can  make 
to  a  blackmailer.  Where  did  Linke  get  it?" 

"On  the  seat  of  his  pants." 

"Naturally;  but  the  location  of  this  happy  interview — 
wasn't  it  on  the  path  by  the  back  steps,  the  far  side  of  the 
house?" 

"That's  the  spot,"  I  said  uneasily,  "how  the  devil " 

"Close  under  the  side  window  of  the  library,  eh — which 
is  on  the  floor  just  above.  You  had  left  Lord  Trent  in  the 
library,  and  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  his  overhearing 
this  business  between  you  and  Linke;  in  fact  he  did  overhear 
it." 

"Did  he  tell  you  so?" 

"Of  course  he  didn't.  But  it's  a  point  there's  no  doubt 
about." 

"Surely,  Palke,  you  weren't  investigating  the  case  at  that 
time?" 

"No,  but  Begbie  was.  He  did  some  quite  useful  work.  The 
morning  after  Linke 's  murder,  he  had  already  established 
that  a  woman  had  been  present  in  Black  Spinney.  The  tracks 
were  faint  and  the  clues  were  slight.  He  made  a  further 
discovery.  He  found  similar  footmarks  of  a  woman  in  the  dry 
soil  among  the  laurel  bushes  far  from  the  back  entrance  of 
Stan  ways." 

"Begbie  has  never  been  able  to  trace  that  woman  further 
nor  to  find  any  clue  to  her.  But  she  had  certainly  been  hiding 
up  there,  the  night  before,  and  apparently  she  was  alone  then. 
We  deduce  that  she  was  in  touch  with  the  Stanways  house- 
hold, had  a  pretty  close  knowledge  of  it,  and  she  was  a  clever 
watcher." 

"Whom  was  she  watching?" 

"Begbie  has  his  theory.  Mine  is  that  she  was  spying  on 
Linke .  She  didn  't  trust  him .  She  overheard  that  little  interview 
of  yours  with  him,  and  learned  that  he  was  playing  for  his  own 


214  BLOOD    MONEY 

hand;  willing,  if  he  got  his  price,  to  go  back  on  his  friends  and 
sell  his  knowledge  in  a  better  market.  That  is  a  kink  you'll 
always  find  in  the  blackmailer.  He  naturally  seldom  sticks  to 
an  agreement  if  he  finds  one  that  will  pay  higher;  and  he 
dislikes  sharing.  Danger  never  appeals  to  him  if  he  can 
dodge  it  and  play  safety." 

"The  woman  and  her  partner  were  the  active  agents,  the 
cutting  edge  of  the  scheme.  Michael  Power  stood  to  win  a 
fortune  in  the  event  of  Elaine  Corbyn's  death;  it  was  neces- 
sary that  he  should  be,  or  appear,  entirely  innocent  of  it.  If 
and  when  it  came  off",  they  would  have  Michael  in  their 
pocket." 

"Right  next  to  that  scheme,  knowing  all  the  facts,  an  ally 
that  they  couldn't  shelve  or  leave  out  was  Linke,  otherwise 
Stephen  Power.  Their  game  was  up  if  he  went  back  on  them. 
When  the  woman,  mistrusting  him,  found  that  that  was  just 
what  he  was  ready  to  do,  she  passed  the  word  to  the  man 
with  the  gun.  The  stake  was  too  big,  and  they  couldn't  risk 
letting  Linke  baulk  them  for  his  own  profit.  His  mouth  had 
to  be  stopped;  and  it  was  stopped  that  night  in  Black  Spinney." 

"Linke  was  out  of  the  way.  The  killers  came  back  that 
same  night  with  a  car.  They  would  have  removed  Linke  if  it 
could  have  been  done  with  safety.  They  left  little  in  the  way 
of  traces,  but  enough  to  show  what  their  intention  was.  Here 
we  touch  certainty  again;  somebody  else  intervened,  and  they 
had  to  fade  out  and  leave  the  body  in  the  wood." 

"So,  a  dead  man  was  discovered  in  the  Spinney,  and 
Begbie,  following  up  the  trail  very  intelligently — his  work 
was  really  excellent — found  very  little  to  help  him  at  Stan  ways, 
and  nothing  to  connect  Linke  with  the  two  unknown  women 
who  had  just  arrived  from  New  York.  Elaine  Corbyn  failed 
to  recognise  him — declared  she  knew  nothing  of  him.  She 
wasn't  helpful.  Neither  were  you,  Rolfe.  I  don't  know  that  I 
blame  you.  You  might  have  cleared  yourself  of  suspicion " 


SHADOWED  215 

"This  clears  my  father  too!  It  shows  he  couldn't  have  had 
any  part  in  it  at  all." 

"Ah,  that  doesn't  by  any  means  follow,"  said  Palke.  "What 
does  follow,  and  interests  me  very  much  more — it  will  soon  be 
interesting  all  the  world — is  that  the  automatic  which  showed 
Linke  the  way  out  of  it  was  the  gun  which  that  amazingly 
plucky  girl  had  to  face  last  night,  when  she  paid  the  price  for 
this  damned  conspiracy  of  silence.  Unless  I  get  that  gunman," 
said  Palke  gently,  "I  don't  know  that  I  shall  take  much  more 
interest  in  life  myself.  This  isn't  the  sort  of  case  I  can  feel 
cold-blooded  about,  though  I  may  have  seemed  so  to  you. 
It's  unprofessional,  to  show  feeling  of  this  sort.  But  I  shan't 
count  the  casualties,  nor  care  who  squeals,  if  I  can  herd  every- 
one concerned  into  the  dock." 

"You  won't  hear  me  squealing.  And  the  man  who  got 
away  with  Elaine — what  of  him?  Are  vou  forgetting 
him?" 

Palke  rose. 

"If  the  others  are  roped  in,  I  can  get  that  man  any  time  I 
want  him." 

"Can  you  keep  the  story  out  of  the  papers?"  I  asked. 

He  looked  at  me  sharply. 

"Why  on  earth?" 

"It's  a  hunch  I've  got,  Palke,  that  if  this  news  about  Elaine 
is  kept  back  till  the  trailing  is  done,  you'll  win;  and  if  not 
you'll  be  beaten.  I  may  be  no  detective,  but  I'm  dead  sure 
that  publicity  and  the  cold  truth  will  scare  the  murderer  off 
the  map  and  beyond  your  reach.  Shall  I  tell  you  why?" 

"No,"  said  Palke,  "and  I'm  afraid  your  brain-wave  misses 
it,  Rolfe.  In  any  case  it's  late  for  this.  Why,  the  news  is  out 
now.  In  the  Stop  Press  column,  and  postered  besides." 

"What!  It's  impossible." 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  and  handed  me  the  early  edition  of 
the  Daily  Wire. 


2l6  BLOOD    MONEY 

I  took  it  and  stared  blankly  at  the  black  headline  over  an 
announcement  packed  into  the  Late  News  space. 

TRAGEDY  AT   STANWAYS  HOUSE 

Miss  Elaine  Corbyn,  a  wealthy  American  woman,  was 
found  shot  last  night  in  an  empty  room  at  Stanways  House, 
Herts. 

There  the  report  ended. 

"Where  the  devil  did  they  get  this?"  I  said. 

"From  me,"  replied  Palke.  "I  'phoned  it  to  the  Wire 
office  last  night  soon  after  leaving  you." 

"Why  does  it  stop  at  that?  Not  a  word  about  the  disap- 
pearance  " 

"Can't  pack  an  entire  murder  case  into  the  Stop  Press," 
said  Palke.  "One  must  cut  it  short  somewhere." 

He  reached  for  his  hat,  and  laid  a  hand  on  my  shoulder  as 
he  turned  to  go. 

"Sit  tight  for  twenty-four  hours,  Rolfe.  Dead  silence  till  I 
give  you  the  word,  and  I  think  we've  got  our  birds,  I'm 
taking  a  chance;  it's  going  to  be  a  pretty  dangerous  job  for 
everybody.  But  those  who  are  running  the  risk  have  asked  for 
it,  and  they  can't  squeal.  You'll  keep  your  head  shut,  any- 
how. I  want  you  to  remain  on  guard  here  in  the  house  and 
not  leave  it  on  any  account — till  the  morning.  After  that  you 
can  do  as  you  like." 

"Why  man,  do  you  think  you  can  keep  this  thing  dark!" 
I  exclaimed  as  he  turned  the  door  handle.  "All  the  household 
knows  more  than  there  is  in  that  paper — they're  bound  to 
talk." 

"You're  mistaken,"  said  Palke,  "not  a  soul  knows  anything 
about  it  except  your  father.  Miss  Craddock,  and  Dr.  Tilden. 
Your  father  will  certainly  not  open  his  mouth;  and  I've 
ensured  that  Tilden  won't  talk.  A  very  sound  fellow;  I  saw 
him  last  night." 


SHADOWED  217 

"By  the  way,"  he  added  with  a  twinkle,  "that  must  have 
been  a  pretty  stiff  sleeping  dope  he  gave  you  when  he  came 
back.  I  knew  you'd  been  having  the  devil's  own  time  of  it 
with  your  father  and  Begbie.  I  was  feeling  rather  sorry  for 
you,  Rolfe — and  I  still  am.  You're  going  to  need  all  the 
sympathy  you  can  get." 

The  door  closed  suddenly  behind  him,  and  a  few  moments 
later  I  heard  his  car  driving  away. 


XXXVII 
THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  LODGE 

I  didn't  know  whether  to  be  furious  with  the  man  or  to 
laugh,  as  I  bounced  out  of  bed  and  took  a  rapid  cold  bath. 
For  nerve  I  never  knew  Palke's  match,  but  the  suggestion 
that  I  had  been  deliberately  doped  out  of  the  way  and  put  to 
sleep  comfortably  because  it  suited  Palke's  book,  certainly 
did  raise  my  gall. 

But  as  I  hurried  into  my  clothes  my  spirits  rose  every 
moment.  Jenny  was  out  of  harm's  way,  come  what  might; 
safeguarded  by  the  police,  and  clear  of  the  whole  horrible 
business.  I  owed  that  to  Palke — in  fact  from  start  to 
finish  it  was  hard  to  reckon  up  how  much  I  was  in  his  debt; 
though  the  loss  of  her  left  a  gap  that  nothing  else  could 
fill. 

When  I  went  down,  the  house  seemed  uncannily  quiet. 
Out  of  doors  everything  was  fresh  and  bright  after  a  night  of 
heavy  rain.  I  found  three  maid-servants  in  the  library, 
talking  excitedly  in  undertones.  They  seemed  embarrassed 
when  I  entered,  and  they  hurried  out.  A  parlour-maid  looked 
at  me  curiously  and  was  evidently  bracing  herself  to  ask  a 
question.  I  suppose  I  looked  more  forbidding  than  usual; 
she  subsided  and  followed  the  others. 

Palke  had  said  they  knew  nothing  which  mattered.  He 
might  be  right;  a  household  staff  generally  knows  more  than 
it's  given  credit  for.  And  somehow  in  the  full  light  of  day,  the 
amazing  events  of  the  past  night  seemed  to  have  faded  out 
like  an  evil  dream;  one  could  hardly  realise  they  had 
happened. 

I  passed  into  the  grounds.  Of  the  faint  trails  and  foot- 
prints that  we  had  examined  overnight  there  remained  no 
trace;  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  flower-bed  below  the  morning- 


THE    LIGHT    IN    THE    LODGE  219 

room  window  must  have  been  raked  over  early  in  the  night, 
so  thoroughly  was  everything  obliterated;  the  rain  had  done 
the  rest. 

The  morning-room  presented  a  blank  front  of  heavy  bolted 
shutters  inside  the  window;  the  door  in  the  passage  was 
locked.  For  a  few  moments  that  sinister  room  drew  me  like 
a  magnet.  Then  I  left,  glad  enough  to  get  away  from  it. 
Nothing  to  be  done  there. 

Palke  had  asked  me  to  remain  in  the  house.  On  guard,  he 
had  said.  What  did  he  mean  by  that?  What  did  he  expect  me 
to  do — he  had  given  me  no  instructions. 

Elaine's  room  I  also  found  was  locked;  Jenny's  too.  I  made 
an  unobtrusive  tour  of  the  house  and  had  soon  accounted  for 
all  the  indoor  staff,  with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Jessop.  And  of 
my  father  there  was  no  sign. 

All  through  this  apparently  useless  secrecy  I  was  thinking 
busily,  straightening  out  in  my  head  the  amazing  story  that  I 
had  heard,  and  reaching  for  the  final  solution. 

Suddenly,  like  a  flash  it  came  home  to  me;  I  believed  I  saw 
clearly  where  Palke  was  shaping.  It  was  a  revelation.  I  was 
still  outlining  it  mentally,  deciding  what  my  own  part  in  it 
should  be,  when  I  found  myself  facing  my  father,  who  came 
in  unexpectedly  by  the  back  door,  in  a  heavy  overcoat  and 
carrying  a  little  valise. 

I  stopped  dead,  tongue-tied.  I  never  felt  so  apologetic  and 
embarrassed  in  my  life;  now  it  was  as  though  he  was  the 
accuser,  and  I  the  accused.  His  manner  had  completely 
altered.  He  looked  at  me  with  a  cynical  hostility  that  made 
me  still  more  uncomfortable. 

"You  are  on  duty,  of  course?"  he  said.  "As  for  me  I  find 
the  atmosphere  of  this  house  so  sinister  and  suspicious  that 
I'm  clearing  out.  I've  had  enough  of  it.  You'll  find  it 
necessary,  I  suppose,  to  let  Palke  know  you  saw  me  go,  and 
the  time?" 


220  BLOOD    MONEY 

"For  Mike's  sake  don't  talk  like  that,  Dad!"  I  said,  for  my 
nerves  were  on  edge.  "Look  here,  I  want  to  tell  you " 

"Tell  me  nothing.  Much  better  for  you;  and  probably  for 
me.  Jenny  Craddock  is  now  under  police  protection  it  seems, 
and  that  ought  to  satisfy  you.  Quite  natural.  Palke  has  you  on 
a  string."  He  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  overcoat.  "A  devil 
of  a  fellow,  this  Palke,"  he  added.  "Perfectly  unscrupulous. 
He's  going  to  land  us  all  in  the  cart.  But  I'm  past  caring.  He 
is  intelligent  at  any  rate,  and  I  prefer  him  to  Begbie.  Good-bye 
for  the  present,  my  boy.  Remember  that  your  unfortunate 
father  wishes  you  well,  though  he  finds  it  a  duty  to  take  care 
of  himself.  Don't  talk  to  the  servants,  by  the  way." 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Jessop?"  I  asked  as  he  turned  away. 

"I  doubt  if  you'll  ever  get  over  that  habit  of  asking  foolish 
questions,"  rejoined  my  father,  and  disappeared  down  the 
garage  path. 

It  was  a  relief  in  a  way,  but  I  felt  very  lonely  and  apprehen- 
sive after  he  had  gone.  As  if  it  were  likely  I  should  talk  of  this 
business  to  the  servants! 

One  thing  I  did  expect,  and  dreaded  the  job  of  coping  with 
it,  was  the  arrival  of  the  Pressmen  from  London. 

It  seemed  to  me  they  were  bound  to  come  flocking  down 
on  the  trail  of  such  a  story  as  this,  and  all  the  more  because  I 
found  to  my  surprise  that  there  was  not  a  word  about  it  in 
the  Express  or  The  Times — we  don't  take  the  all-popular 
Wire  at  Stan  ways.  I  didn't  think  even  Palke  would  have 
the  nerve  to  give  them  an  exclusive  "scoop"  at  the  risk  of 
having  all  the  other  papers  calling  for  his  blood;  the  police 
usually  take  care  not  to  upset  the  Press. 

But  not  a  soul,  to  my  knowledge,  came  near  Stan  ways  that 
day,  and  though  I  was  strung  up  with  the  expectation  of 
some  rough  stuff  that  I  could  take  hold  of  and  deal  with, 
nothing  happened.  That  was  what  galled  me.  I  wanted  action, 
and  it  looked  as  if  Palke  had  switched  me  on  to  a  side-track 


THELIGHTINTHELODGE  221 

for  his  own  ends.  When  night  fell,  I  was  raging  at  the  thought 
that  he  had  sold  me  a  pup.  If  this  was  what  he  called  leaving 
me  on  guard,  I  was  fed  up  with  it.  But  I  took  the  little  twenty- 
bore  gun  up  to  bed  with  me. 

At  ten  o'clock,  as  I  looked  out  from  my  window  across  the 
park,  I  saw  a  distant  light  glimmering  like  a  tiny  star,  low 
down  among  the  trees  near  the  south  entrance.  It  was  steady 
but  faint,  as  though  somebody  had  stood  a  lantern  there. 


XXXVIII 
THE  REPORTER 

I  J  u  D  G  E  D  it  to  be  nearly  a  mile  away;  it  was  in  the 
opening  of  the  south  lane,  hard  by  Black  Spinney.  There  was 
something  queerly  suggestive  about  that  spark  of  light  in  the 
gloom.  I  hadn't  imagination  enough  to  picture  it  as  a  corpse- 
candle  marking  the  spot  where  Linke  the  blackmailer  had 
met  his  end.  Linke — Stephen  Power,  brother  to  Michael  who 
was  on  his  way  across  the  Atlantic,  claimant  to  the  millions 
lodged  at  the  Guaranty  Trust.  I  thought  it  was  likely  to  be 
something  much  more  material. 

Black  Spinney  had  such  a  morbid  attraction  for  me  that  I 
was  all  for  slipping  quietly  out  to  investigate.  But  I  didn't 
go;  Palke's  instructions  held  me  to  the  house,  and  though  I 
resented  them  I  sat  tight,  watching  the  light  for  an  hour, 
when  it  was  suddenly  extinguished.  For  another  half-hour  I 
watched,  smoking  thoughtfully.  Then  I  turned  in,  fully 
dressed;  the  little  spark  of  Ught  was  with  me  in  my 
dreams.  .  ,  . 

When  I  woke  in  the  morning,  with  the  gun  lying  beside 
me  and  Stan  ways  just  as  quiet  and  peaceful  as  usual,  I  felt 
mad  enough  to  shoot  Palke,  who  turned  up  on  the  stroke  of 
eight,  just  as  I  came  downstairs. 

"Well,  who's  wearing  the  handcuffs?"  I  said.  "Have  you 
left  me  out  of  it?" 

"You  may  hear  them  click  if  you  listen,"  he  replied.  "Now 
don't  get  sour,  Rolfe,  I'll  put  you  in  the  front  seat  if  you'll 
have  a  few  hours'  patience.  Seen  anything  here?" 

I  told  him  about  the  light.  He  showed  no  interest  in  it. 

"No  law  against  showing  a  light  in  peace  time,"  he  said, 
and  gave  me  the  Wire,  "Here's  the  latest." 

I  flew  off  the  handle. 


THE    REPORTER  223 

"Damn  it  all,  Palke,  what's  the  Wire  to  me?  I  want  action, 
not  morning  editions!" 

"You'll  get  all  the  action  you  need.  And  don't  speak 
lightly  of  the  Press.  Read  that  snapshot  report,  Rolfe.  It 
takes  us  where  we  want  to  go,  and  it  touches  you  closely." 

I  opened  the  paper.  And  I  got  a  jar  that  shook  me.  The 
sting  wasn't  in  the  big  middle-page  headlines,  but  in  the  tail 
of  the  report. 

THE  STANWAYS  TRAGEDY 

There  was  a  lead-off  of  personal  stuff  about  Stanways, 
Elaine,  and  her  wealth,  which  I  skipped  hastily. 

...  At  twenty-past  nine  on  Friday  night,  Mr.  Kenyon 
Rolfe,  Lord  Trent's  son,  startled  by  a  sound  which  he 
believed  to  be  a  gunshot,  hurried  into  the  morning-room 
and  found  Miss  Elaine  Corbyn  apparently  fatally  injured; 
a  bullet  wound  in  her  right  temple. 

The  windows  of  the  room  were  closed.  She  was  still 
conscious  but  unable  to  speak,  and  it  seems  uncertain  whether 
she  was  still  living  when  Mr.  Rolfe  hurried  out  to  summon 
medical  help  with  all  possible  speed.  That  help  was  never 
to  reach  her. 

The  most  amazing  feature  of  the  case  is  that  during  that 
brief  absence  of  Mr.  Rolfe's,  which  is  accounted  for  by  his 
call  to  the  doctor  and  the  police  and  occupied  but  a  few 
minutes,  Miss  Corbyn  disappeared.  When  he  returned  the 
window  was  open  and  she  was  gone. 

Here  followed  a  short  account  of  my  own  futile  search 
and  pursuits. 

Police  were  on  the  spot  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Search  soon  revealed  tracks  showing  that  Miss  Corbyn  had 
been  removed  by  a  man  who  had  entered  by  the  window; 
there  were  other  confused  footmarks,  but  owing  to  heavy 
rain  all  trails  failed. 


224  BLOOD    MONEY 

Up  to  the  present  the  identity  of  this  man,  who  has 
thrown  so  sinister  a  cloud  of  mystery  over  the  fate  of  Miss 
Corbyn  remained  unrevealed. 

There  is  only  a  small  household  staff  at  Stanways,  none 
of  whom,  it  appears,  were  aware  of  the  tragedy  till  the 
police  actually  arrived. 

Lord  Trent  was  not  in  the  house  at  the  time  the  shot  was 
fired,  and  on  his  return  he  declared  himself  not  only  ignorant 
of  the  occurrence,  but  of  any  motive  that  Miss  Corbyn 
could  have  had,  or  any  reason  for  the  subsequent  mysterious 
removal. 

The  pistol  found  by  Miss  Corbyn's  side  remained  where 
it  lay  and  has  been  identified  as  her  own.  Miss  Corbyn  lay 
within  six  feet  of  the  fireplace,  at  the  back  of  the  room. 
The  pistol  was  close  by  her  right  hand.  It  is  a  small  33 
automatic  with  the  usual  nine  rounds;  one  shot  discharged. 

That  finished  it.  Not  a  word  about  the  will.  But  it  was  that 
last  line  which  got  me.  I  flung  the  paper  down  and  turned  to 
Palke. 

"The  gun  was  clean!"  I  said. 

"And  on  that  point  the  case  turns,"  replied  Palke.  " — and 
one  other.  It  was  clean,  my  dear  Rolfe,  when  you  found  it. 
But  you  didn't  know  that.  Begbie  gave  that  fact  away  to  you. 
The  more  fool  he.  A  man  who  is  after  a  murderer  has  no 
right  to  be  humane,  and  even  Begbie  has  a  soft  side.  He  knew 
your  hands  were  clean,  and  seeing  you  half  off  your  head 
because  you  thought  the  girl  had  shot  herself,  he  put  you 
wise  and  showed  you  the  clean  barrel — which  he'd  no  busi- 
ness to  do." 

"Do  we  tell  the  papers  everything  we  know?  Not  very 
often,  Rolfe,  until  we're  ready.  The  pistol  and  the  spent 
shell  are  on  record  to  show.  Only  three  people  know.  Myself, 
Begbie,  and  you.     Your  mouth  is  closed." 

I  looked  at  him,  rather  aghast. 

"But  man,  are  you  going  to  let  a  million  people  believe 
that  Elaine  Corbyn  died  by  her  own  hand!"  I  said. 


THE    REPORTER  225 

Palke  drew  coolly  at  his  pipe,  peering  at  me  through  the 
smoke. 

"My  dear  Rolfe,  it's  nothing  to  me,  at  this  stage,  what  the 
public  choose  to  believe  or  what  deductions  they  make." 

"That  news-story  there  has  got  all  England  wondering 
what  really  happened  to  Elaine  Corby n,  and  by  to-night 
America  will  be  wanting  to  know  as  well.  But  there's  not  a 
soul  will  want  to  know  quite  so  badly  as  the  man  who  shot 
Elaine.  He'd  give  his  eyes  for  that  knowledge.  And  guessing 's 
mighty  dangerous  for  him." 

"You  see,  don't  you,  Rolfe?  Since  you'd  learned  so  much  I 
had  to  show  you  all  there  was  to  be  seen,  and  secure  you  on  my 
side.  I  believe  another  twenty-four  hours  will  see  us  home." 

"You're  a  clever  devil,  Palke,  and  you've  certainly  your 
nerve  with  you!  Even  now  I  don't  see  clearly  what  you're 
driving  at?" 

"You  don't?  Use  your  brains.  You're  the  only  one  that's 
inside  the  game.  And  it's  a  great  game,  Rolfe.  They'll  break 
me  if  I  lose." 

"But  man,  you're  holding  up  half  creation!  What  about 
the  Wire  man?  You  won't  get  away  with  that!" 

"What,  Charlie  Flint,  the  livest  little  wire  in  Fleet  Street? 
I  wouldn't  naturally  try  to  fool  Charlie,"  said  Palke  reproach- 
fully. "We've  been  in  too  many  big  cases  together,  Charlie 
and  I,  and  though  he's  for  his  paper  before  all  things,  he  has 
the  makings  of  a  great  policeman.  He's  sitting  in  my  car  at  the 
moment.  He'll  ask  you  nothing  this  time — so  you  needn't 
tell  him  anything." 

"I  certainly  won't!  But  you've  got  to  tell  me " 

"Later,"  said  Palke,  rising,  "no  telling  needed.  We're 
going  to  get  that  action  you're  itching  for." 

He  opened  the  library  door,  and  in  the  hall  we  found  a 
stocky  little  man  with  shrewd,  whimsical  eyes,  inspecting  the 
pictures  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur. 


226  BLOOD    MONEY 

"This  is  Mr.  Rolfe,  Charlie,"  said  Palke,  and  the  little 
man  bowed  to  me.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  met  Charles 
Flint,  though  his  fame  reached  far  beyond  Fleet  Street. 

"You  look  younger  than  I'd  have  judged  from  your 
portrait,  Mr.  Rolfe — we've  got  it  at  the  office,"  he  said.  "I 
suppose  you  realise  that  you  are  News.  Jimmy  you're  scaring 
me  a  little,  a  thing  no  man  has  ever  done  yet.  If  you've  sold 
the  Wire  a  pup,  it's  going  to  be  your  finish  and  mine." 

"Notyour's  anyway,"  said  Palke, "and  I  give  you  my  word 
Charlie  that  you  and  you  only  shall  be  in  at  the  death  when 
this  job  clicks."  He  turned  to  me.  "You  remember  the 
Deeping  case?  Without  Charles  Flint's  help,  I  should  never 
have  hanged  Deeping." 

The  reporter  smiled  at  me,  with  the  suspicion  of  a  wink. 
"I  wish  you  well  clear  of  Inspector  Palke,"  he  said.  "The 
most  unscrupulous  policeman  I  ever  had  to  do  with,  and  the 
cleverest.  He  has  the  criminal  mind." 

"No  detective  can  get  anywhere  without  it,  and  all 
successful  crime  reporters  are  born  with  it,"  chuckled  Palke. 
"If  you  understand  the  criminal's  mentality  and  have 
sympathy  with  it,  you  can  forecast  very  accurately  what  he 
will  do." 

"I  can  forecast  the  hell  my  colleagues  on  the  other  papers 
will  raise  on  my  getting  ahead  of  them,"  said  Mr.  Flint, 
cheerfully.  "There's  a  couple  of  them  at  the  gates  now,  I 
believe,  squaring  the  lodge-keeper!" 

"We  can't  have  that!"  said  Palke,  hurr}'ing  to  his  car. 
"This  place  must  be  kept  quiet — I'll  give  them  what  they 
want.  Go  out  across  the  fields,  Charles;  meet  me  in  the 
village." 

He  called  back  to  me  as  he  started  his  engine. 
"You're  off  guard,  Rolfe.  See  you  later.  Go  anywhere  you 
like  except  Black  Spinney." 

And  he  was  gone.  Mr.  Flint  smiled  at  me  again. 


THE    REPORTER  227 

"I'll  leave  you  too,  Mr.  Rolfe.  As  we're  both  victims  of 
that  plausible  policeman,  we  won't  stay  together  and  abuse 
him.  I  don't  think  he'll  let  us  down.  You  wouldn't,  I  suppose, 
care  to  give  me  any  idea  what  has  become  of  Miss  Jenny 
Craddock?" 

"I  would  like  to  know  myself,"  I  said  guardedly.  "But  if 
I  did  I  wouldn't  tell  you." 

He  nodded,  and  stared  at  me  thoughtfully. 

"The  roses  of  romance!"  he  sighed.  "I  was  young  myself 
once.  Would  you  think  it  impertinent  of  me,  Mr.  Rolfe,  if  I 
offered  you  my  congratulations?" 

"I  rather  like  you,  Mr.  Flint,"  I  said,  "but  understand 
that  if  you  publish  anything  about  that  in  your  rag,  there's 
going  to  be  another  murder." 

"I  wouldn't  dream  of  it,"  he  protested,  "unless  things  go 
so  well  that  you'd  ask  me  to — but  I'm  much  afraid  they 
won't.  They  seldom  do  when  there's  a  job  for  the  hangman. 
Well,  au  revoiry 

He  waved  his  cane  to  me  and  walked  briskly  away  across 
the  park,  a  quaint  little  figure.  As  I  retreated  into  the  house, 
cursing  Palke's  reticence  and  wondering  if  it  was  worth 
while  waiting  for  him,  the  postman  arrived  on  his  push-bike 
with  the  morning  mail. 

There  was  a  sheaf  of  missives  for  my  father,  all  of  which 
looked  like  bills,  and  a  single  letter  for  me,  which  I  took  into 
the  gun-room  and  tore  open  hurriedly.  I  never  learned  till 
then  how  a  woman's  handwriting  caiT  set  one's  heart  beating. 
When  love  is  starved  it  feeds  on  crumbs. 

"Ken  dear,  I'm  beginning  to  hope.  Things  are  going  to 
come  right,  and  I  want  to  tell  you  so  in  case  you're  feeling 
lonely.  Forgive  me  if  I  daren't  say  more,  and  I  oughtn't  to 
be  writing  at  all.  Life  can't  always  be  cruel." 

"Jenny." 


228  BLOOD    MONEY 

That  was  all.  It  was  little  enough.  But  I  washed  out  Palke 
and  everything  else,  and  in  five  minutes  I  was  in  the  car, 
speeding  for  London — though  there  wasn't  even  an  address 
on  the  letter. 

I  felt  I  couldn't  stand  Stanways  and  its  silence  another 
day,  and  as  I  know  Galton  Park — the  postmark  on  the 
letter — well-to-do  suburb  with  a  police-station  and  a 
residential  hotel,  I  got  the  idea  that  I  could  locate  Jenny  on 
my  own.  Of  course  this  was  all  against  orders.  I  didn't  care, 
if  I  could  get  next  her.  But  briefly,  my  day  was  a  complete 
frost — though  one  or  two  odd  things  happened — and  I  got 
back  to  Stanways  in  the  evening  as  wise  as  when  I  started. 

A  suspicion  reached  me  that  Palke  had  somehow  worked 
it  to  get  me  out  of  the  way.  He  was  uncanny  in  his  sure 
judgement  of  the  people  he  dealt  with.  But  there  was  no  sign 
of  him,  and  Stanways  was  like  a  tomb  for  quietness.  Patience 
is  not  one  of  my  vices,  and  I  was  through  with  Palke.  He  had 
promised  me  action,  and  he  was  a  four-flusher. 

Then  I  saw  that  little  spark  of  light  again,  among  the 
trees,  like  an  old  friend. 


XXXIX 
THE  MOTH  AND  THE  CANDLE 

The  light  showed  itself  a  little  earlier  than  the  night  before, 
and  being  interested,  for  there  was  nothing  else  to  do,  I 
slipped  quietly  out  into  the  park,  and  placed  it  definitely  this 
time.  It  was  not  in  the  Spinney,  as  I  had  thought;  it  came 
from  a  window  in  the  south  lodge,  near  by. 

This  was  curious,  because  the  south  lodge  was  empty, 
and  hadn't  been  occupied  for  months.  It  was  derelict,  and 
no  one  had  any  business  to  be  there. 

Well,  it  was  my  business  if  it  was  anybody's.  What  was 
the  light,  and  why  was  it  there?  Palke's  prohibition  was 
lifted,  and  it  would  have  made  no  difference  to  me  if  it  hadn't 
been.  I  stalked  the  spot  cautiously,  keeping  under  cover  of 
the  long  belt  of  timber  that  skirted  the  park,  and  halted  in 
the  gloom,  a  gunshot  away  from  the  lodge.  The  light  came 
from  a  small  square  window  on  the  side  nearest  Stanways. 

I  waited  for  a  minute  or  so,  and  it  seemed  as  though  a 
shadow  flitted  between  me  and  the  light.  Was  someone  else 
abroad,  doing  a  little  scouting?  I  began  to  wish  I  had  brought 
the  twenty-bore  along.  But  on  second  thoughts,  better  not. 
There  had  been  too  much  shooting  in  Hertfordshire  for 
comfort;  I  had  a  feeling  that  this  was  no  occasion  for  lethal 
weapons,  though  the  sense  of  a  lurking  danger  was  strong  in 
me.  The  light  became  visible  again,  the  shadow  passed,  and 
I  crept  forward  till  I  was  beneath  the  open  casement  window, 
rising  cautiously  till  I  could  get  a  view  of  the  room.  It  was 
rather  like  the  opening  scene  in  a  play. 

I  don't  think  I  was  particularly  surprised  at  the  sight  of 
my  honoured  parent.  He  was  sitting  comfortably  at  a  little 
table  in  the  centre,  the  picture  of  imperturbability,  a  writing- 
block  before  him.  His  pen  was  moving  as  if  he  were  balancing 


230  BLOOD    MONEY 

up  accounts,  emitting  an  occasional  whiff  from  an  admirable 
cigar  whose  scent  drifted  to  me  at  the  window. 

The  lodge  parlour  was  bare  save  a  couple  of  chairs  and 
the  table,  on  which  stood  a  kerosene  lamp;  a  fire  burned  in 
the  open  grate,  and  the  place  had  a  cosiness  of  its  own  in 
contrast  to  the  muggy  darkness  outside. 

My  father  laid  his  pen  down  and  glanced  over  what  he 
had  written.  I  heard  him  laugh  gently,  as  if  at  a  thought  that 
tickled  him. 

I  would  have  betted  anything  I  possessed  that  he  was  not 
within  two  hundred  miles  of  Stan  ways,  and  I  peered  at  him 
wonderingly.  Why  had  he  retreated  to  the  lodge?  What  was 
the  idea?  He  must  have  been  here  the  night  before,  when  I 
first  saw  the  light,  and  likely  enough  he  had  never  left  the 
place.  Nor  was  it  my  job  to  stalk  him. 

Why  should  he  keep  out  of  my  way?  I  was  on  the  point  of 
going  straight  in  to  have  it  out  with  him,  but  for  a  conviction 
that  it  would  end  in  my  own  discomfiture.  And  while  I 
hesitated,  I  heard  a  movement  outside,  on  the  gravel  path 
by  the  gate. 

I  saw  my  father  shift  slightly  in  his  seat,  and  as  he  looked 
up  I  withdrew,  that  he  might  not  see  me  there.  The  last 
thing  I  wanted  was  any  sort  of  recognition.  When  I  took 
another  look  through  the  curtains  he  had  resumed  his 
writing  and  seemed  to  have  noticed  nothing.  His  hearing  was 
never  as  quick  as  mine. 

A  moment  later  there  was  the  sound  of  a  boot  gritting  on 
the  step  of  the  door  on  the  farther  side,  the  door  opened 
quietly,  and  a  stranger  entered  the  little  parlour. 

"Lord  Trent,  I  think?"  he  said.  His  voice  marked  him  at 
once;  from  the  Middle  Western  States. 

My  father  looked  up  with  a  stare  of  surprise  and  annoyance. 
I  paid  little  heed  to  him;  all  my  attention  was  focussed  on 
the  stranger.  I  had  a  clear  enough  view  of  him  as  he  stood 


THE    MOTH    AND    THE    CANDLl  23I 

in  the  glow  of  the  lamp,  having  closed  the  door  quietly 
behind  him. 

He  had  a  pair  of  keen,  piercing  black  eyes,  that  did  not 
falter  or  blink  in  the  sudden  change  from  darkness  to  the 
light  of  the  room.  Otherwise  his  appearance  was  rather 
commonplace.  He  was  of  middle  height,  stockily  built, 
and  wore  a  soft  grey  hat  low  over  his  forehead  and  a  thick 
grey  overcoat.  A  comfortable-looking  fellow  with  an  amiable 
air.  But  one  look  at  him  was  enough  for  me.  The  danger 
signal  was  up. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  want?" 

"I  had  to  run  you  to  ground,  Lord  Trent,"  said  the  visitor 
with  a  smile,  and  laid  a  card  on  the  table.  "But  I  guess  you'll 
forgive  me.  I'm  James  Wernicke,  of  the  Chicago  Globe- 
Courier" 

"I  came  here  to  be  out  of  the  way  of  Pressmen!"  said  my 
father.  "You  are  wasting  your  time." 

"But  I'm  not  wasting  yours,"  said  Mr.  Wernicke. 
"Listen!  I  am  on  the  trail  of  the  Corbyn  case,  I'm  deeper 
into  it  than  anyone  else,  not  excluding  the  police,  and  I  know 
there's  only  one  man  can  give  me  the  truth  about  it.  Of 
course,  you  wouldn't  give  it  away.  A  point  of  honour.  That's 
understood." 

"But  one  thing  I've  got  to  have — ^the  facts  about  this 
unfortunate  woman,  Elaine  Corbyn.  That's  what  I'm  here 
for.  Mind  you,  it's  bound  to  come  out  soon  or  late!  I  want  it 
soon — quick!  Now,  can  I  induce  you  to  come  across  with 
that  story?  It's  worth — "  he  paused  a  moment — "it's  worth 
just  a  quarter  of  a  million — to  me  and  my  syndicate." 

He  gave  the  figure  in  a  voice  so  gentle  that  it  scarcely 
reached  me;  I  would  have  doubted  my  own  ears,  if  my  father 
after  a  slight  pause  of  amazement  had  not  repeated  it. 

"A  quarter  of  a  million? — Pounds?" 

"Dollars.  Say  fifty  thousand  sterling." 


232 


BLOOD    MONEY 


My  father's  eyes  gleamed  for  a  moment.  His  lips  relaxed 
in  a  slow  smile. 

"Yours  must  be  a  remarkably  wealthy  paper,  Mr. 
Wernicke!" 

"Sure!  The  Courier  Syndicate  is  one  of  the  biggest 
financial  corporations  in  the  world,  and  it  can  deliver  the 
price  if  it  gets  the  goods.  You  have  to  realise,  sir,  that  the 
sensation  raised  by  this  case  is  already  world-wide.  Elaine 
Corbyn  was  a  Michigan  woman  and  the  Courier  is  the 
principal  paper  in  the  Middle  West.  She  was  also  a  lady  with 
wide  financial  interests — as  you  know,"  said  the  visitor 
rapidly.  "In  short.  Lord  Trent,  the  sky  is  the  limit  as  far  as 
my  paper  is  concerned — provided  we  get  the  story  about 
Elaine  Corbyn  and  what  happened  to  her.  I  have  full  powers, 
as  the  Syndicate's  representative,  to  deal  with  you." 

"Mr.  Wernicke,"  said  my  father,  "do  you  take  me  for  a 
damned  fool?" 

Wernicke  raised  his  hands,  as  if  with  a  gesture  of  surrender, 
dropped  them  again,  and  laughed. 

"Nothing  like  it.  I  know  you  for  a  man  of  uncommon 
perception  and  intelligence.  Lord  Trent.  Let  me  assure 
you  of  it." 

"In  that  case,  suppose  you  drop  this  camouflage  about  a 
paper  that's  oifering  a  fortune  for  a  mere  news-story,  and 
come  to  bed-rock?" 

Wernicke  shrugged  a  shoulder.  His  manner  was  calm 
enough,  but  one  could  see  that  inwardly  he  was  tense  with 
excitement  and  anxiety — and  determination.  He  was  like  a 
man  strung  on  taut  wires. 

"Thought  you  might  prefer  it  the  other  way.  To  bed-rock 
then,"  he  said,  "I  want  a  quick  yes  or  no — does  a  quarter  of 
a  million  interest  you?" 

"It  does.  You  interest  me  enormously,  Mr.  Wernicke," 
said  my  father,  just  as  cool  in  manner,  but  with  the  same 


THE    MOTH    AND    THE    CANDLE  233 

suppressed  eagerness.  "When  you  first  came  in  I  took  you 
for  a  journalist.  You  have  evidently  heard  I  am  a  poor  man. 
It  is  against  every  principle  I  have  to  let  a  sum  like  that  go 
past  me,  if  there  is  any  means  of  my  securing  it.  But  how 
am  I  to  know " 

"I  can  convince  you,  Lord  Trent,"  said  the  visitor.  "And 
speed's  everything,  with  me.  I'm  a  business  man — ^we've  got 
to  move  quick.  Just  one  moment  first." 

He  moved  to  the  entrance  door  and  turned  the  key  in  it, 
took  a  swift  searching  glance  round  the  room,  tried  the  two 
narrow  cupboards  on  either  side  of  the  fireplace;  one  was 
locked  and  the  other  stood  open — he  passed  into  the  inner 
room  which  was  the  lodge  kitchen,  returning  immediately. 
After  this  rapid  survey  he  stepped  across  to  my  window  and 
closed  it. 


XL 

THE  GUNMAN 

I  H  A  D  drawn  back  and  flattened  myself  against  the  wall, 
my  heart  thumping  fast,  for  I  wanted  to  see  more  of  this 
gentleman  before  he  became  aware  of  me.  So  far,  the  luck 
had  held.  But  my  spirits  sank  as  the  casement  swung  to. 

When  I  took  a  cautious  look,  a  minute  later,  no  sound 
reached  me.  The  two  men  were  seated,  my  father  at  the 
table  and  Wernicke  opposite  him,  looking  decidedly  wary 
some  six  feet  away,  facing  him.  They  were  deep  in  earnest 
conversation  that  was  completely  cut  off  from  me. 

I  knew  my  father  so  well.  I  had  a  clear  view  of  his  face  in 
the  lamp-light;  I  could  read  in  it  that  resolute  look,  faint  yet 
unmistakable,  which  I  had  often  seen  before,  when  there 
happened  to  be  a  big  stake  upon  the  board.  Wernicke  was  the 
cooler  of  the  two,  outwardly  at  any  rate;  he  had  the  poker 
face,  one  could  not  guess  what  sort  of  a  hand  he  held.  The 
situation  looked  so  dangerous  to  me  that  my  nerves  were 
taut  strung;  something  decisive  was  about  to  happen. 

It  was  maddening  to  be  shut  out  of  it  like  this,  behind  a 
latched  window.  I  tried  the  edge  of  the  casement;  it  seemed 
rather  a  futile  thing  to  do,  but  to  my  surprise — for  I  could 
have  sworn  I'd  heard  the  bolt  click  home  when  Wernicke 
closed  it — the  window  swung  gently  towards  me  and  was 
once  more  open.  I  stopped  it  when  there  was  a  gap  of  a  few 
inches,  and  again  I  was  able  to  hear. 

"That  seems  clear  enough,  Mr.  Wernicke,"  said  my  father. 
"Tell  me  exactly  what  it  is  you  want  of  me." 

"Two  vital  facts,"  said  Wernicke.  "I  wish  to  know — and 
to  have  proofs — what  became  of  Elaine  Corbyn,  three 
nights  back  when  she  disappeared  out  of  the  morning-room 
at  Stanways.  Is  she  dead  or  living?" 


THE    GUNMAN  235 

My  father  was  silent  a  moment. 

"Now  supposing,  Mr.  Wernicke,  that  I  can  supply  those 
facts " 

"Cut  it  out,"  said  Wernicke  impatiently.  "I  know  you  can 
put  me  wise  to  them.  I  know  you're  the  only  person  living 
who  can.  I'm  not  a  guesser,  I'm  a  man  who  works  on 
certainties.  So  don't  let's  waste  time." 

"This  fifty  thousand — when  do  I  receive  it,"  asked  my 
father. 

"Directly  Elaine's  will  is  proved.  You  may  have  to  wait  a 
little — but  not  long.  As  a  guarantee  that  we  shall  play 
straight,  I'm  offering  you  two  thousand  pounds  down,  on  that 
table.  You'll  get  the  balance — when  it  comes  in.  You  know 
that  we  wouldn't  go  back  on  you.  We  wouldn't  dare  to.  Any 
more  than  you'd  dare  go  back  on  us." 

"Quite  so,  Mr.  Wernicke.  And  two  thousand  pounds 
dovra.  You  are  willing  to  take  my  word  for  it?  That  I'm 
delivering  the  goods." 

"Certainly.  It  isn't  to  your  interest  to  give  me  anything 
but  the  sure  facts.  You  would  lose  out  of  the  deal  if  you  did." 

My  father  nodded. 

"Mr.  Wernicke,  you're  dealing  very  fairly  with  me.  I  am 
to  give  you,  privately  and  between  ourselves,  this  very 
dangerous  secret  on  which  such  vast  interests  depend;  it 
affects  you  as  much  as  it  does  me.  Yet  I  pause  and  ask  my- 
self why  should  I?  Even  for  such  a  prize  as  you  offer?  Why?" 

"Wait,  Lord  Trent!"  Wernicke  leaned  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  stared  at  him.  "I  know  what  you're  thinking.  You 
believe  you're  safe.  .  .  .  You  figure  your  son  is  going  to  get 
half  a  million  along  with  Jenny  Craddock  .  .  .  half  share  of 
the  Power  estate!  If  he  counts  on  that,  let  me  tell  you  you're 
both  out!  You're  dead  wrong." 

My  father  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Mr.  Wernicke,  you've  told  me  you're  a  quick  man,  and 


236  BLOOD    MONEY 

you  certainly  are,"  he  said.  "So  you  know  all  about  the 
Elaine  Power  will?" 

"I  know  all  about  that  will,"  said  Wernicke  quietly.  "The 
part  of  it  that  benefits  Jenny  Craddock  isn't  worth  much; 
she  will  never  get  it.  And  get  on  to  this  too,  Lord  Trent. 
Even  if  it  did  benefit  her — and  your  son — what  in  the  name 
of  Mike  would  be  the  good  of  that  to  you}  What  would  you 
ever  get  out  of  it?  Why  not  divide  the  safe  half  of  the  legacy, 
and  make  sure  of  that?  I'm  offering  you  the  cast  down,  and 
a  big  fortune  which  is  a  cold  certainty!" 

"In  other  words,  splitting  the  remainder  of  Elaine's  legacy 
— with  you?" 

"Sure!  We've  a  big  hand  to  play,  and  you  hold  one  of  the 
aces  against  us.  We  can't  spread  our  cards  till  we  know  we 
have  a  sure  thing.  We've  got  to  have  the  news  confirmed. 
Answer  quick  now — do  you  accept  my  offer?" 

"That's  easily  answered,"  said  my  father.  "Let  me  be 
quite  sure  I've  got  it  right.  I  receive  fifty  thousand,  from  the 
sum  inherited  under  Elaine's  will,  which  your  representatives 
can't  claim  without  definite  proofs  of  her  death.  If  her  death 
is  not  proved  the  will  wouldn't  have  the  slightest  value  for 
any  of  us?" 

"Sure!  And  you  come  across!  Now  then?" 

"Mr.  Wernicke,  I  don't  accept  any  offer  that  you  can 
make.  The  answer  is,  no!  I'll  tell  you  further " 

Wernicke  leaned  forward,  surprise  and  anger  in  his  eyes. 
His  manner  had  completely  altered. 

"I  don't  accept  your  refusal.  Lord  Trent,"  he  said. 

"You  want  it  in  plain  language?"  said  my  father  coolly. 
"I'll  see  you  damned  first,  you  thief  and  murderer." 

Wernicke's  face  was  congested  with  fury.  For  a  moment 
the  two  men  faced  each  other,  each  seated  in  his  chair.  Then 
with  a  movement  quick  as  a  striking  snake,  a  black  automatic 
shone  in  the  stranger's  hand,  pointing  at  my  father's  stomach. 


THE    GUNMAN  237 

I  gripped  the  window-sill,  ready  to  spring,  realising  with 
dismay  that  there  was  no  getting  through  that  narrow 
entrance  in  time,  for  a  moment  uncertain  whether  to  dash 
for  the  door.  I  knew  that  my  father's  refusal  was  final.  And 
Wernicke  knew  it  too. 

"Listen,  you  big  stiff!  You're  dealing  with  a  cornered  man, 
and  I'm  not  leaving  you  to  squeal  on  me — give  up  or  you  get 
yours  now,  this  shuts  your  mouth!" 

"There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  shoot  me,"  said  my 
father.  "It  will  save  me  a  lot  of  trouble.  I  had  a  Wesson  which 
the  police  collected,  or  you  wouldn't  have  been  sitting  there 
quite  so  long,  Wernicke.  You'll  certainly  hang  soon  or  late', 
whether  it's  on  my  account  or  Elaine's." 

I  gave  a  yell,  and  launched  myself  through  the  window.  I 
am  big  made,  and  it  was  a  scramble  rather  than  a  spring — 
my  shoulder  hit  the  side  of  the  frame  and  I  sprawled  on  to 
the  floor  of  the  room  with  the  wind  knocked  out  of  me. 
Before  I  hit  the  boards  I  heard  an  astonished  cry,  a  smash 
and  the  report  of  a  pistol.  It  was  like  one  of  those  confused 
crashes  of  sound  you  hear  in  a  Wagner  orchestra. 

I  staggered  to  my  feet  in  a  rush  of  cold  air,  the  front  door 
stood  wide,  Inspector  Palke  was  standing  by  me  regarding 
with  mild  interest  the  scene  on  the  floor,  where  two  figures 
sprawled  in  a  brief  but  impressive  mix-up. 

The  one  on  top  was  Begbie.  Miraculously,  from  the 
unknown,  he  had  somehow  descended  like  an  avalanche 
upon  Wernicke,  who  for  a  few  seconds  fought  furiously.  My 
father  was  standing  up  beside  his  chair.  I  never  saw  anything 
more  professional  than  the  way  the  bulky  Begbie  mastered 
his  man.  A  couple  of  quick  heaves,  the  click  of  a  pair  of  hand- 
cuffs, and  Wernicke  was  immobilised.  The  Wesson  pistol  lay 
on  the  boards  a  yard  out  of  his  reach.  Palke  picked  it  up. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Inspector  Palke  with  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction. 


XLI 

JAKE  MAGUIRE 

I  NEVER  before  saw  my  father  so  thoroughly  taken  aback. 
He  paid  no  attention  to  the  handcuffed  prisoner;  he  was 
staring  at  Inspector  Begbie. 

"Where  the  devil  did  you  spring  from?"  he  said  with  cold 
disapproval. 

"From  the  cupboard,  sir,"  said  the  panting  Begbie.  He 
picked  up  the  Wesson  automatic.  "Never  counted  on  his  using 
this  thing — for  a  moment  I  really  thought  he'd  got  you." 

"I  really  thought  he  had  too,"  said  my  father,  "it  seemed 
to  me  I  was  to  be  the  third  casualty.  I  did  have  an  idea  that 
Palke  might  be  somewhere  within  call,  but  never  that  I'd 
find  myself  indebted  to  Begbie,  the  human  avalanche.  Thank 
you,  Begbie!" 

"It  did  look  a  close  call,"  said  Palke,  "but  I've  a  couple  of 
watchers  outside,  and  I  had  him  covered  myself  from  the 
porch  window;  there  wasn't  all  that  risk.  Of  all  things  I  hate 
using  a  gun;  they're  fussy  about  it  at  the  Yard  even  in  murder 
cases,  and  it's  unprofessional.  Begbie  has  done  such  useful 
work  in  this  case  that  I  thought  it  only  fair  he  should  finish 
it  with  full  credit." 

He  took  the  prisoner  by  his  overcoat  collar  and  heaved 
him  into  a  chair  where  the  lamp  shone  on  his  face.  The  man 
got  his  breath  back,  and  was  wrenching  at  his  wrists  and 
glaring  at  us  venomously.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  more 
dangerous  looking  animal;  now  that  his  hat  was  off  and  I 
saw  his  low  flat  forehead  with  its  knobbed  temples,  it  came 
home  to  me  that  we  had  trapped  our  man  at  last. 

"Ken,"  said  my  father  reproachfully,  "I  suppose  nothing 
will  cure  you  of  this  habit  of  butting  into  delicate  situations 
when  you're  not  wanted." 


JAKE    MAGUIRE  239 

"Mr.  Rolfe  was  naturally  a  bit  anxious  about  you,  sir," 
said  Palke,  "and  after  all  his  being  here  saves  us  time.  Have 
you  ever  seen  this  fellow  before?" 

He  turned  to  me, 

"I  can  swear  to  one  thing,  it's  the  man  who  was  spying  in 
at  the  gun-room  window  ten  days  ago,  and  that  was  the  time 
Elaine  saw  him,"  said  I,  and  added  quickly,  "it's  a  thousand 
pities  he  didn't  stop  a  bullet  that  night." 

"That's  a  lie  anyway!"  snapped  the  man.  "I  was  never 
near  this  place  till  now." 

"I'd  advise  you  to  save  your  breath  till  you're  in  the  dock," 
said  Palke,  "you'll  have  your  chance  then,  Jake  Maguire.  It 
is  Maguire,  isn't  it?" 

"He  introduced  himself  to  me  as  Wernicke,"  said  my 
father  mildly.  "But  we  understood  each  other  from  the  first, 
and  I  never  knew  even  a  Pressman  so  greedy  for  information 
— or  offering  such  a  price  for  it." 

"It  was  now  or  never,  Jake,  wasn't  it,"  said  Palke.  "Sad 
to  see  three  millions  going  west  when  there  was  only  one 
man  who  could  put  you  wise  in  time — even  at  fifty-fifty. 
Take  him  away,  Begbie." 

The  prisoner  turned  to  my  father,  his  face  livid  with  fury. 

"You  damned  stool-pigeon!"  he  snarled. 

"Mr.  Wernicke,"  said  Dad,  "or  Maguire,  or  whatever 
your  trade  name  is,  I'm  not  a  purist.  I  think  Inspector  Palke 
is  justified  in  using  any  means  he  pleases,  rather  than  let  you 
slip  through  his  fingers.  I  could  have  forgiven  you  and  even 
commended  you  for  killing  Linke,"  added  my  father,  "but 
I  had  the  greatest  admiration  for  Elaine  Power.  The  fact  that 
you  tried  to  shoot  me  doesn't  weigh  with  me  for  a  moment, 
but  I  hope  they  hang  you  on  her  account." 

"I'd  sooner  swing  for  youV  retorted  the  gunman,  "and 
none  of  you  have  anything  on  me,  except  thatV  he  nodded 
to  the  broken  pane  where  the  Wesson's  bullet  had  crashed 


240  BLOOD    MONEY 

through  the  glass.  Palke  made  a  sign  to  his  colleague,  who 
led  the  captive  out. 

"I'd  like  to  shake  hands  with  you  before  you  go,  Begbie," 
said  my  father.  "It  must  have  been  very  uncomfortable  in 
that  cupboard.  Any  little  soreness  that  there  was  between  us 
is  forgotten." 

Begbie  reddened  and  rather  awkwardly  took  the  hand  that 
my  father  held  out,  before  he  disappeared  with  his  charge. 

"I'll  shake  too  if  you  don't  mind,  sir,"  I  said  a  little 
huskily.  "I'd  be  proud  if  I  had  your  nerve,  and  if  I  ever — I 
mean  if  you  ever  felt  sore  with  me,  remembering  what  a  fool 
I've  been " 

"My  dear  boy!"  said  Dad,  giving  me  a  pleasant  grip, 
"you've  inherited  the  nerve  of  the  family,  if  not  its  brains, 
and  I've  never  felt  sore  with  you.  But  if  there's  a  diploma 
for  nerve,"  he  added,  "let  me  hand  it  to  this  skilful  angler, 
Palke,  who  has  not  only  the  credit  for  one  of  the  cleverest 
captures  on  record,  but  didn't  hesitate  to  use  me  as  live- 
bait.  No  doubt  he  thinks  me  rather  a  queer  fish,  and  he's 
probably  right." 

Inspector  Palke  smiled,  and  turned  to  me. 

"Mr.  Rolfe,  your  father  acquits  me.  This  murder  gang 
found  they  had  been  double-crossed  by  somebody  who  was 
evidently  playing  for  his  own  hand.  They  were  steered  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  man  who  was  holding  them  up  is 
Lord  Trent.  They  couldn't  abandon  a  prize  that  so  much  had 
been  risked  for,  and  that  was  still  within  their  grasp  at  the 
cost  of  one  quick  bid  for  success.  I  didn't  tell  your  father 
just  what  he  was  up  against;  but  I  made  my  own  arrange- 
ments for  his  protection." 

"  I've  seen  timber- wolves  trapped  in  Idaho,"  said  I, 
"but  never  anything  quite  like  that.  He  was  right  when  he 
said  he  was  a  cornered  man.  Still,  I  don't  see  why  he  had 
to " 


JAKEMAGUIRE  24I 

"And  now,"  said  Palke,  "I'm  taking  you  along  for  a  little 
run  with  me  now.  My  car's  waiting  the  other  side  of  Black 
Spinney." 

"If  you're  going  to  take  Ken  away,"  said  my  father, 
"I'll  get  back  to  the  house;  it's  devilish  uncomfortable 
here.  Tell  me  Palke,  will  that  man  hang?  Can  you  bring  it 
home  to  him?  He  seemed  very  confident." 

"Confidence  is  a  natural  habit  in  crooks,"  said  Palke. 
"Yes,  Jake  is  fixed." 

My  father  nodded.  He  thrust  the  papers  from  the  table 
into  his  pocket,  and  went  out  without  looking  at  me.  Palke 
was  wrapping  a  silk  handkerchief  carefully  round  the 
Wesson  pistol. 

"You're  a  sceptic  about  guns,  Rolfe,"  he  said,  picking 
up  the  empty  shell  from  the  floor,  "but  you'll  hardly  disagree 
that  this  one  has  been  fired." 

He  stopped  for  a  moment  outside  the  lodge  to  say  a  word 
to  a  shadowy  figure  that  emerged  from  the  bushes.  Then 
we  both  went  away  together  down  the  south  lane,  stepping 
briskly.  He  took  my  arm,  and  I  heard  him  laughing  quietly 
to  himself;  he  did  not  answer  when  I  questioned  him  but 
hurried  me  on.  Past  Black  Spinney  and  down  the  cart 
road  beyond,  we  came  upon  a  car — tucked  snugly  back 
among  the  bushes. 

"Get  in,"  said  Palke,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  clear 
of  the  lane  and  whizzing  south  along  the  main  road  to 
London. 

"Gad,  what  a  night!"  I  said,  drawing  a  free  breath  for 
the  first  time.  "You  took  a  most  infernal  risk,  Palke!" 

"I  told  you  I  shouldn't  stick  at  a  risk,"  he  replied.  "You 
must  remember  that  you  people  have  been  taking  chances 
from  the  first,  and  neither  of  you  can  complain." 
"Did  you  know  I  was  at  that  window?" 
"Yes,  and  decided  to  leave  you  there.  You  had  a  place 


( 


242  BLOOD    MONEY 

intended  for  somebody  else.  Did  you  notice  it  wouldn't 
shut?" 

"Yes,  Maguire  tried  to  shut  it,  and  I  got  it  open  again 
all  right." 

"I  fixed  it  that  way,"  said  Palke.  "It's  lucky  you  showed 
some  sense,  you  gave  me  an  anxious  time.  But  so  long  as 
we've  got  our  man " 

"You  called  him  Maguire.  Palke,  who  is  Maguire?" 

"The  gunman?  Now  we've  got  him  I  think  we  shall  find 
he  answers  to  the  name  of  Maguire,  as  the  lost  dog  advertise- 
ments say.  Getting  him  was  the  rub.  If  you  want  a  certainty, 
label  him  the  man  who  killed  Linke.  Number  One." 

The  speedometer  touched  fifty-three.  We  were  on  the 
main  route;  the  glow  of  London  tinged  the  sky,  away  in  the 
south. 

"You're  something  of  a  speeder  yourself,  Rolfe.  But  we're 
a  little  farther  ahead  than  on  the  night  when  you  ran  a 
Chrysler  with  a  pricked  tyre  out  of  Euston  down  the  Great 
North  Road  and  gave  the  Hertfordshire  Constabulary  a 
derelict  corpse  to  trail,  when  their  hands  were  too  full 
already." 

"That  seems  like  ten  years  ago,"  said  I.  "Do  you  mean 
I've  got  to  account  for  Spike  O'Dowd?  It  was  Spike,  wasn't 
it?" 

Palke  chuckled  reassuringly  in  the  gloom. 

"Headquarters  won't  trouble  you  with  Spike  O'Dowd. 
Nor  his  mate,  whom  we  found  nearly  two  weeks  ago." 

"His  mate!  The  other  man  in  the  Buick  car?  I  always 
thought " 

"You  were  right.  He  got  away  on  his  two  feet  as  far  as 
the  high  road,  and  managed  to  get  a  lift  to  Wexford 
Infirmary.  By  the  time  we  traced  him  there  he  was  dying. 
His  story  was  that  he'd  been  run  into  by  a  lorry  in  the  dark. 
He  gave  nothing  away;  a  dying  man  hasn't  anything  to 


JAKE    MAGUIRE  243 

gain  by  squealing.  No  loss  to  society.  Jason  Krupp — three 
convictions  for  robbery  with  violence;  an  old  associate  of 
Spike's  and  one  of  the  same  breed — a  killer." 

"Was  he  Maguire's  man?" 

"By  arrangement.  No  doubt  at  all  Maguire  put  those  two 
London  thugs,  Spike  and  Jason,  on  to  Elaine  with  the 
jewel-case  for  a  bait,  and  the  warning  to  leave  no  evidence 
behind.  If  you  hadn't  crashed  their  car  they'd  have  shot 
up  the  three  of  you.  Of  course,  I  can't  prove  that  now;  and 
I  don't  need  to." 

"Compared  with  Michael  Power,  none  of  these  people 
matter  vitally  to  us;  they  are  pawns  in  the  game.  I  make  one 
exception,  Jake's  partner — ^the  Silent  Woman,  who  walks  in 
the  dark  as  all  felines  do.  And  it's  my  belief  we  ought  to 
have  allowed  her  to  walk  free  a  little  longer.  But  there  it  is; 
now  we've  got  her  we  can  only  make  the  best  of  her." 

"Jake's  partner!"  I  said.  "The  woman?  You  mean  to  say 
you've  got  her?" 

"Arrested  this  morning.  The  French  have  a  proverb, 
'By  night  all  cats  are  black.'  But  however  difficult  to  pick 
out  against  a  dark  background,  they  become  conspicuous 
when  they  venture  out  in  broad  daylight.  Yes,  we've  got 
her,  but  another  difficulty  is  that  she  remains  as  silent  as 
ever.  And  in  this  country  the  Third  Degree  is  officially 
forbidden.  You  won't  agree  with  me,  but  I  hold  that  in 
murder  cases  it  shouldn't  be  barred." 

"Palke!"  I  said,  anxiously,  "is  she " 

"I  haven't  seen  her  myself  yet,"  said  Palke,  "but  I  suggest 
we  call  her  Kathleen,  and  I  want  you  to  meet  her.  Meanwhile 
Rolfe,  imitate  her  gift  of  silence  until  we  reach  Vintner 
Street  police  station." 


XLII 
KATHLEEN 

W  HEN  Palke  is  in  that  sort  of  mood  there's  no  coping 
with  him.  The  lights  of  London  were  rapidly  drawing  nearer; 
he  was  silent  till  we  got  into  the  traffic  stream. 

"We'll  be  there  in  a  few  minutes,  and  I  may  as  well  tell 
you  how  we  got  her,"  he  said.  "The  data  that  were  strung 
together  at  Stanways,  so  far  as  they  could  be  connected  with 
this  woman,  were  broadcasted  to  all  stations  and  led  to  the 
arrest  in  London  this  morning — by  a  C  Division  policeman 
on  ordinary  patrol  duty.  He  knows  nothing  about  the 
Stanways  case  beyond  the  ten-line  order  that  I  sent  out." 

"His  Inspector  'phoned  me  and  got  instructions.  The 
woman  refused  to  give  any  account  of  herself.  I  was  busy 
getting  Jake,  and  she'd  have  been  very  little  use  to  us  if  we 
hadn't  pulled  Jake  in." 

"Now  here's  another  point,  Rolfe,  touching  this  woman. 
Michael  Power  has  been  tailed  up  ever  since  he  left  jail.  He 
was  convicted  under  a  purser's  name,  which,  as  there  was 
no  earlier  record  of  him,  made  him  difficult  to  trace.  But 
all  correspondence  directed  to  that  name  has  been  tapped 
by  the  New  York  D.CJ.  Michael's  mail  was  waiting  for 
him  at  an  address  to  which  he  went  soon  after  his  release — 
all  this  is  elementary — police  organisation." 

"Among  three  letters  for  Michael  was  one  in  a  woman's 
hand.  Its  contents  were  quite  innocuous;  except  that  it 
contained  a  500-dollar  bill." 

"Now  that  might  mean  anything.  The  sender  must  have 
known  when  Michael  was  due  out  of  the  jug,  and  a  curious 
thing  about  it  is  that  it  had  been  mailed  from  this  side  and 
bore  a  London  postmark.  Sam  Collins  flashed  a  telephoto 
of  it  back  to  me  three  days  ago." 


KATHLEEN  245 

"All  this  letter  says  is:  'Await  instructions.  Market 
rising.'  That's  for  Michael.  It  was  written  on  the  note-paper 
of  the  Liverpool  Street  Hotel,  with  a  pen-stroke  drawn 
through  the  address  heading.  Anyone  who  drifts  into  the 
writing-room  there  can  use  that  paper.  It's  signed  'John 
Evans.'  And  not  a  doubt  about  it;  'John  Evans'  is  female." 

"That  looks  promising,  doesn't  it,  Rolfe?  But  to  fasten  it 
on  to  the  sender,  unless  we  get  something  more  that  will 
clinch  it,  is  going  to  be  a  puzzler.  It  may  be  a  blind  trail; 
in  fact  it  looks  like  one.  I  have  a  hunch,"  said  Palke  thought- 
fully, "that  this  woman  is  going  to  beat  me  on  one  of  the 
most  vital  points  of  the  case.  However,  I'll  introduce  you 
to  the  lady  at  once." 

We  turned  out  of  the  West  End  traffic  into  the  quiet 
backwater  of  Vintner  Street.  A  Divisional  Inspector  at  the 
police-station  received  us  in  his  office.  He  greeted  Palke 
cordially,  and  was  very  reserved  towards  me. 

"Nothing  through  from  New  York  about  No.  2  yet?"  said 
Palke.  "You  cabled  Sam?" 

"We  had  this  through  at  eight  o'clock,"  said  the  Inspector, 
handing  him  a  sheet  of  buff  paper.  "There  isn't  much  to  it." 

Palke  glanced  over  it. 

"Not  so  bad,"  he  said,  "and  now  lead  us  to  the  lady; 
don't  bring  her  out.  I'll  see  her  where  she  is.  Hasn't  said 
anything?" 

"Nothing,"  said  the  Inspector,  and  a  minute  later  a 
warder  led  us  down  an  echoing  stone  corridor  and  unlocked 
a  door  with  a  little  grating  at  the  height  of  the  eye,  and  swung 
it  open.  Palke  said  a  word  to  the  Inspector  and  the  warder, 
who  both  retired. 

"Step  out,  madam,"  said  Palke,  civilly. 

The  vague  figure  in  black  sitting  on  the  bench  in  that 
steel  and  concrete  box  rose  and  came  slowly  forward.  It 
was  a  moment  I  had  been  dreading.  Then  came  a  feeling  of 


246  BLOOD    MONEY 

relief,  as  the  light  fell  on  her  face.  I  didn't  know  this  woman. 
And  yet,  when  I  looked  at  her  closely,  I  wasn't  so  sure. 

Palke  glanced  from  her  face  to  mine.  She  stood  before  us 
without  a  word;  a  woman  of  apparently  about  forty,  though 
she  might  have  been  much  younger.  Her  face  was  weather- 
beaten  and  ravaged;  a  pair  of  fierce  dark  eyes  stared  at  me 
contemptuously.  Her  forehead  was  low  and  broad,  and  her 
figure  slim,  her  Hps  a  thin,  hard  line.  But  she  must  have  been 
an  uncommonly  good-looking  woman  once. 

She  turned  to  Palke  with  a  menacing  stare.  I've  seldom 
seen  anyone  who  impressed  me  more.  The  dim  light 
suited  her;  she  looked  a  creature  of  darkness.  Evidently  she 
was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  us;  she  looked  as  courageous 
as  a  cornered  cat,  and  as  vicious.  The  sight  of  her  made  me 
feel  creepy. 

"What  am  I  here  for!"  she  said  harshly.  "What  am  I 
charged  with?" 

"Not  charged  with  anything,  yet;  detained.  Just  detained, 
madam,"  said  Palke. 

"It's  some  fool  mistake!" 

"It  was  a  bigger  mistake  to  send  that  message,  Katty," 
said  Palke  gently.     "Mike  sailed  on  Tuesday." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"I've  sent  no  message  to  anyone.  Who  is  Mike?  I  guess 
you're  a  fool." 

"Exactly  what  Jake  says.  We  got  Jake  to-night.  By  the 
way,  this  is  young  Mr.  Rolfe,  Lord  Trent's  son.  I  see  he 
doesn't  know  you.  But  you  know  him." 

Then  the  woman's  eyes  blazed  red  at  him. 

"To  hell  with  you!"  she  said,  "you've  got  nothing  on  me!" 

"Just  what  they  all  say,"  sighed  Palke.  He  beckoned  to  the 
warder,  who  re-locked  the  cell. 

"That's  all  for  the  present,"  said  Palke  to  the  Inspector, 
as  we  went  out.  "Don't  let  a  word  leak  out  concerning  that 


KATHLEEN  247 

woman.  Detain  her.  If  she  makes  trouble — which  she  won't 
— charge  her  with  being  a  suspected  person  and  ask  for  a 
remand." 

He  got  into  the  car  and  turned  north  once  more. 

"I've  a  fairly  good  nerve,  Rolfe,"  he  said,  "but  I  wouldn't 
be  shut  up  in  the  cell  with  that  woman  if  you  offered  me  the 
Chief  Commissionership.  What  did  you  make  of  her? 
Notice  anything?" 

"Her  eyes;  and  that  queer  way  she  has  of  turning  on  you 
when  she's  roused.  She  reminded  me  of  Maguire." 

"She  is  Katty  Maguire,  Jake's  sister.  The  woman  whose 
flat  shoes  you  saw  the  prints  of  outside  the  morning-room 
the  night  Elaine  was  shot.  But  she's  something  more  than 
that,  Rolfe.  Just  what  she  is — I  wonder  if  we  shall  prove  that 
before  the  curtain  drops." 

He  relapsed  into  gloom.  I  couldn't  conceal  my  own 
relief. 

"I  thought  it  was  Mrs.  Jessop  you'd  got!  Of  course,  I  was 
a  fool " 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Palke.  "That  smooth  black-silk  house- 
keeper of  yours  was  within  an  inch  of  finding  herself  in  the 
cells  at  Wheatbridge  three  nights  ago,  and  if  it  had  been 
left  to  Begbie  that's  where  she'd  have  landed.  She  lied  to  me, 
when  I  questioned  her — no  doubt  you  noticed  it. 

"Her  reasons  for  being  out  that  night  wouldn't  bear 
examination,  but  they're  no  business  of  yours  or  mine,  we'll 
pass  them.  She  knew  your  father  was  suspected  of  having  a 
hand  in  the  killing  of  Linke,  and  she'd  say  nothing  that 
might  give  him  away.  With  all  her  failings,  she's  a  good 
servant,  and  she's  loyal.  She  would  have  lied  better  if  she 
had  been  sober;  maybe  you  noticed  that  too.  I  don't  want 
to  be  tactless,  but  Stanways  is  really — rather  a  queer  house- 
hold." 

"I'll  run  you  back  home,  but  you'll  have  to  get  out 


248  BLOOD    MONEY 

of  it  in  the  morning.  The  toughest  part  is  still  to  come,  and 
I  shall  want  you." 

"There  are  rocks  ahead  for  you,  Rolfe;  and  for  me.  The 
Stanways  case  isn't  solved,  and  I'm  taking  a  big  chance 
myself.  What  is  the  link  between  Michael  and  the  Maguires? 
Jake  killed  Stephen,  Michael's  brother.  For  that  I  can  warrant 
that  Jake  will  hang.  It's  the  only  certainty.  I  can  prove  that 
Katty  Maguire  was  in  Black  Spinney  at  the  time  of  the 
killing;  I  can  show  that  she  was  at  Stanways  on  the  night  of 
the  14th.  None  of  this  is  evidence  against  Michael  Power 
— the  three-million-dollar  claimant." 

"He'll  never  claim,  Palke!"  said  I. 

"Won't  he?"  said  Palke,  quietly.  "I  would  consider  my- 
self badly  left  if  he  doesn't  claim."  He  paused,  and  trod 
hard  on  the  accelerator.  "This  is  the  last  case  I  shall  ever 
handle.  It's  not  going  as  well  as  I  could  wish.  Still,  I'm  glad 
to  see  you  looking  so  cheerful.  Is  it  because  you  suppose 
all  this  brings  you  any  nearer  to  Jenny  Craddock?" 

"It's  got  to  be  soon.  I've  had  all  I  can  stand!" 

"Look  here,  Rolfe,"  he  said,  seriously.  "I  know  you  don't 
care  what  happens  to  me;  but  if  you  really  want  a  disaster 
to  Jenny  Craddock,  just  butt  in  again  and  you'll  get  one.  I 
can't  issue  orders  to  you.  But  I  want  your  word  of  honour 
as  a — well,  as  a  member  of  the  Stanways  household — to 
stand  clear  till  I  give  you  the  signal." 

"When?" 

"When  the  Carthusian  is  docked,  and  Elaine  Power's 
widower  comes  along.  It's  going  to  be  a  day  of  trouble." 

"For  Michael!  I'll  bet  it  will." 

"For  all  of  us,  maybe.  He's  due  Friday.  Trouble's  coming 
for  somebody.  That's  the  only  certainty  in  the  Stanways 
case!" 


XLIII 

MICHAEL 

I  L  E  F  T  Stanways  next  morning.  One  or  two  things  had 
to  be  settled  up  first.  But  I  was  never  more  pleased  at 
anything  than  getting  away  from  that  happy  English  home. 
It  was  a  choice  between  that  and  being  interviewed  to  death. 

The  place  was  besieged  by  journalists  from  seven  o'clock 
onwards.  Those  early  press  reports  had  been  so  meagre 
that  the  papers  and  the  public  didn't  seem  to  have  got  on  to 
the  full  sensational  value  of  the  case  for  the  first  forty-eight 
hours.  All  that  was  changed  now,  and  reporters  kept  popping 
up  whichever  way  one  went.  The  lodge-keeper  couldn't  cope 
with  them;  I  shouldn't  have  been  surprised  to  find  one  in 
my  bath. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  Mr.  Charles  Flint  of  the  Wire 
had  found  a  way  with  Palke's  help  of  keeping  his  colleagues 
off  the  territory  on  that  first  morning;  he  was  evidently 
content  with  that  for  he  didn't  come  near  Stanways  again. 
By  this  time  one  might  as  well  have  tried  to  keep  out  a  pack 
of  hounds  in  full  cry.  And  I  was  the  last  person  who  had 
seen  Elaine  alive. 

I  like  newspaper  men  and  find  them  the  best  of  company, 
but  the  thing  was  getting  on  my  nerves  and  at  eight  o'clock 
I  threw  a  few  necessaries  into  a  grip  and  effected  a  quiet 
sneak  down  to  the  garage.  There  I  was  confronted  by  McRae 
the  chauffeur,  busy  over  the  Rolls-Royce. 

I  thought  he  had  left  long  ago.  He  looked  at  me  sombrely 
and  sympathetically. 

"I  have  her  ready,  if  you're  for  gettin'  outo'  this,  sir,"  he 
said.  "Unless  ye've  any  prejudice  against  ridin'  in  a  dead 
woman's  car." 

"I'll  take  the  Chrysler,"  I  said,  "and  see  here,  McRae, 


250  BLOOD    MONEY 

don't  tell  the  newspaper  men  anything;  best  answer  no 
questions." 

"Them  fellys.  They'll  not  get  a  word  out  o'  me,"  he 
growled.  "Forbye  I  know  nothing  but  what  I've  read  in  the 
papers.  A  black  business.  I  never  liked  this  job — I  couldn't 
tell  ye  why." 

"Who  is  paying  your  wages?"  I  asked,  pausing  a  moment. 

"His  lordship.  On  behalf  o'  Miss  Craddock,"  he  said 
sourly,  and  turned  his  back  on  me,  fumbling  under  the 
bonnet  of  the  Rolls. 

The  man's  manner  was  repellent.  Till  then  I  had  rather 
liked  McRae.  I  wasted  no  more  words  on  him,  got  out  the 
Chrysler,  and  streaked  out  of  Stanways  Park  by  the  south 
road.  As  I  passed  Black  Spinney  I  noticed  a  bevy  of  people 
trampling  about  in  it,  and  as  far  as  I  could  see  there  were  no 
police  about  the  place  at  all. 

I  left  the  car  at  a  crowded  garage  in  Barnet,  with  the  idea 
of  shelving  all  chance  of  being  traced,  and  reached  London 
via  the  Tube  from  Colder 's  Green.  Palke  had  given  me  a  hint 
where  to  go  if  things  got  too  lively  at  Stanways,  so  that  I 
could  keep  in  touch  with  him. 

I  finished  my  journey  at  an  obscure  little  hotel  near 
Victoria  Station,  which  turned  out  to  be  very  comfortable, 
and  committed  an  offence  against  the  statutes  at  once  by 
signing  the  register  as  J.  Ralph,  which  is  close  enough  to  my 
own  name  to  bring  me  to  the  telephone  if  Palke  rang  me 
up.  I  hadn't  been  there  half  an  hour  when  I  found  my 
father  was  already  an  inmate.  We  met  in  a  little  smoking- 
room  on  an  upper  floor. 

"My  title  has  gone  west — like  my  reputation,  if  I  ever  had 
such  a  thing,"  he  said.  "And  remember,  my  dear  boy,  that 
while  here  we  are  not  connected  with  each  other  in  any  way. 
But  that's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  be  friends,  until 
Fate  rings  the  bell  and  hands  out  the  reckoning." 


MICHAEL  251 

That  was  his  way.  He  didn't  rub  it  in;  didn't  tell  me  I 
had  dropped  the  biggest  brick  on  record,  or  remind  me  of 
anything  that  was  past.  Dad  was  always  generous  to  me. 
There  was  not  a  father  and  son  in  creation  who  were  better 
friends  than  he  and  I  from  that  time  on.  But  we  didn't 
advertise  it.  And  nobody  concerned  themselves  with  us. 
Unless  you  go  out  of  your  way  to  attract  attention,  London 
is  a  great  city  for  minding  its  own  business;  we  were  a 
couple  of  obscure  boarders  in  a  respectable  back-street 
hotel  and  we  welcomed  obscurity.  But  we  had  some  intimate 
talks  in  that  little  smoking-room,  and  I  look  back  to  it  now 
as  a  time  of  revelation. 

I  had  little  to  do  for  the  next  few  days  but  watch  the 
papers.  There  was  not  a  word  about  the  detention  of  Jake 
and  Katty  Maguire.  The  Stanways  Case  seemed  to  have 
sunk  into  the  journalistic  backwaters,  as  cases  do  when  the 
sources  dry  up,  and  a  sensational  political  scandal  intervened 
and  captured  the  public  imagination,  shelving  for  awhile 
Elaine  Corby n's  mystery. 

Suddenly,  on  the  fifth  day,  it  blazed  out  again  like  a 
comet.  And  this  time  it  was  not  exclusive  to  the  Daily  Wire. 
All  the  papers  had  got  it,  and  gave  it  the  big  headUnes  that 
always  mark  a  case  of  the  first  interest. 

THE  STANWAYS  MYSTERY 

Where  is  Michael  Power? 

6,000,000  Dollar  Will 

...  An  even  more  sensational  feature  of  this  case  than 
the  disappearance  of  Elaine  Corbyn's  body  from  Stanways 
House,  is  the  discovery  of  a  will,  unquestionably  made  and 
signed  by  her,  dated  nineteen  days  ago.  It  was  dated 
November  8th.  On  the  night  of  the  14th  occurred  the  tragic 
and  still  unexplained  event,  the  shooting,  and  the  mysterious 


252  BLOOD    MONEY 

removal  of  the  testator's  body  by  some  person  unknown, 
leaving  behind  nothing  but  a  discharged  pistol,  which  it  is 
already  established  was  her  own  property. 


Here  followed  the  text  of  Elaine's  will,  accurate  to  the 
last  comma. 


This  document,  it  is  declared,  is  legally  attested  by 
witnesses  and  was  undoubtedly  drawn  up  by  the  missing 
woman,  and  bears  her  signature.      , 

Not  less  interesting  is  the  fact  which  now  comes  to  light, 
that  a  sum  of  ,^20,000  stands  to  Miss  Craddock's  credit  at 
Lloyds  Bank,  deposited  by  Elaine  Power's  instructions  to 
the  bank  on  November  3rd. 

What  light  does  this  throw  on  the  mystery?  It  suggests 
on  the  face  of  it  that  Elaine  Corbyn  had  a  premonition  that 
led  her  to  set  her  affairs  in  order.  But  why?  Apart  from  the 
will,  she  made  this  provision  for  Jane  Craddock.  ,^20,000. 
A  trifle,  compared  to  twelve  hundred  thousand  sterling,  yet 
a  substantial  sum. 

What  value  has  the  will?  None,  unless  or  until  the  death 
of  the  testatrix  is  proved.  Then  indeed  it  becomes  of  immense 
value  to  the  two  beneficiaries. 

Where  is  Michael  Power?  He  is  not,  it  is  stated,  at  present 
in  England,  nor  is  it  known  that  he  has  ever  visited  this 
country.  Miss  Jane  Craddock,  on  the  other  hand,  is  now  in 
London,  and  was  at  Stanways  House  on  the  night  of  the 
14th.  ... 

The  following  statement  is  issued  to  the  Press  Associa- 
tion on  behalf  of  Miss  Craddock  by  Messrs.  Stanhope  and 
Strachey,  Attorneys,  Lincolns  Inn  Fields. 

"We  are  instructed  by  our  client.  Miss  Jane  Craddock, 
to  issue  this  declaration: 

*I,  Jane  Craddock,  wish  to  state  that  I  never  wished  or 
expected  to  be  named  as  a  legatee  in  Elaine  Power's  will. 

'But  should  I  be  required  to  act  as  her  executor,  I  wish 
to  say  definitely  that  I  shall  not  oppose  any  claim  to  which 
Michael  Power  is  entitled  by  the  terms  of  her  will,  for  I 
know  it  was  always  her  wish  that  his  right  to  inherit  should 
be  recognised,  and  in  her  testament  she  has  made  this  clear. 


MICHAEL  253 

Until  the  truth  is  known  there  can  be  no  claim  either  by 
Michael  Power  or  myself. 

'In  the  meantime  I  shall  not  in  any  case  accept  or  retain 
the  ;^2o,ooo  which  has  been  credited  to  me  by  no  wish  of 
mine.  Since  I  have  the  right  to  dispose  of  it,  I  shall  surrender 
this  sum  to  Elaine  Power's  husband,  if  he  is  living." 

The  paper  rustled  in  my  hand  as  I  read  that  clause;  and 
I  heard  my  father's  voice  close  behind  me. 

*'Isn't  that  like  Jenny!"  he  said. 

He  was  reading  the  paper  over  my  shoulder,  smiling 
with  a  queer  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  We  looked  at  each  other 
for  a  moment,  and  he  gave  a  shrug. 

"Stanhope  and  Strachey — shrewd  people,  I  should  think. 
A  woman  takes  some  stopping  when  she  makes  up  her  mind 
to  anything,"  said  my  father. 

"What  does  Palke  mean  by  it!" 

"It's  ill  work  guessing  what  Palke  means,"  said  Dad,  "but 
for  my  part  I've  generally  found  he  means  just  what  he  says." 

"Do  you  suppose  Power  will  face  Jenny  and  her  lawyers?" 

"What  else  can  he  do.?  If  he  delays  doing  so,  now  that  the 
affair  is  in  the  Wire  immediate  suspicion  will  fall  on  him. 
Innocence  is  the  only  card  left  him  to  play.  And  it's  a 
devilish  difficult  card  to  lead." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  the  hotel  waiter  appeared. 

"Wanted  on  the  telephone,  sir,"  he  said. 

I  slipped  into  the  booth  across  the  passage.  A  buzz  or 
two  from  the  receiver,  and  Palke's  smooth,  friendly  voice 
caressed  my  ear. 

"That  you,  Rolfe?  .  .  .  Michael  landed  this  morning. 
Now  in  London." 

Queer,  the  effect  that  message  had  on  me,  though  I  was 
expecting  it.  The  telephone  booth  seemed  blotted  out  and  I 
could  see  Black  Spinney,  and  the  morning-room  at  Stanways 
.  .  .  Elaine  stretched  on  the  red-stained  carpet  .  .  .  Jenny 


254  BLOOD    MONEY 

lying  in  my  arms  like  a  dead  woman — half  a  dozen  scenes 
flashing  at  me  in  the  fraction  of  a  second.  Then  I  got  hold 
of  myself. 

"Yes!"  I  said,  "...  what  are  you  doing?" 

"Me?"  said  Palke.  "Nothing.  Michael  has  made  an 
appointment  with  Strachey's — eleven  to-morrow.  I'll  call 
for  you  at  ten." 

"Palke,"  I  said,  "will  there  be ?" 

"Hell  to  pay,"  said  Palke,  and  rang  off. 

I  slept  badly  that  night;  scenes  that  I  most  wanted  to 
forget  haunted  me  till  the  dawn  broke,  and  I  wondered  what 
the  day  would  bring  with  it. 

We  are  entering  upon  an  age  of  prejudice  against  even 
legal  killing;  but  let  the  abstract  humanitarian  consider 
whether  his  views  might  change  if  murder  crept  into  his 
house  on  silent  feet.  There  are  crimes  I  can  easily  condone. 
But  I'm  old-fashioned  enough  to  believe  that  the  gallows 
and  the  electric  chair  are  instruments  of  social  value. 

It  was  long  after  ten  when  I  got  away  next  morning. 
Palke  was  late,  and  unusually  silent.  Not  a  word  could  I 
get  out  of  him  till  we  had  parked  the  car  on  the  west  side  of 
the  Square  and  walked  across  to  the  rendezvous.  By  that 
time  I  had  lost  all  faith  that  anything  would  come  of  it. 

There  are  more  fashionable  squares  in  London,  but 
none  more  imposingly  respectable  than  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields,  that  stronghold  of  family  lawyers.  Number  400  was 
a  sober  old  Georgian  house,  its  doorposts  ranged  with 
brass  plates  all  bearing  the  name  of  the  clan  Strachey. 
We  were  received  in  a  small  side  office  by  Mr.  Pitt  Strachey, 
an  alert,  youngish  man  with  keen  eyes  and  a  persuasive 
manner;  not  at  all  like  the  grave  elderly  chief  I  had  expected 
to  see.  Palke  presented  me  and  the  lawyer  shook  hands 
warmly. 


MICHAEL  255 

"Delighted,  Mr.  Rolfe!  I  would  have  liked  to  have  met  you 
earlier,  but  the  Inspector  was  against  it,  and  we've  half  an 
hour  before  us.  You'll  find  some  friends  upstairs;  Lord 
Trent  is  here  already.  And  of  course  my  cUent,  Miss 
Craddock.  This  way." 

The  only  hint  Palke  had  given  me  was  that  I  should  meet 
Jenny,  and  I  wished  it  could  have  been  in  any  place  but  that. 
Of  course  I  knew  she  had  to  be  in  it.  When  I  was  shown  into 
a  wide-panelled  room  upstairs  with  windows  overlooking 
the  Square,  at  first  sight  I  thought  it  was  empty.  A  vacant 
desk  and  a  typewriter  on  one  side;  a  long  table  with  seats 
round  it  as  if  for  a  board  meeting,  and  five  deep  leather  easy 
chairs.  In  one  of  them,  so  small  and  silent  that  I  had  over- 
looked him  altogether,  was  Charles  Flint  of  the  Wire. 

He  lounged  there  dreaming,  a  pipe  between  his  teeth; 
the  first  I  should  think  that  had  ever  been  smoked  in  that 
sedate  business-like  room.  He  didn't  rise,  but  extended  a 
hand  and  gave  mine  the  friendliest  pressure. 

"You  have  been  in  hiding,  Mr.  Rolfe?  I  hope  this  is  your 
lucky  day!  And  mine."  He  shook  his  head  mournfully. 
"  Palke  has  made  use  of  me  shamelessly — now  it  is  my  turn. 
Can  he  deliver  the  goods?  If  not  the  Wire  will  break  him. 
I  get  five  hours  start  with  the  scoop." 

The  lawyer  smiled,  a  shade  uneasily? 

"I  am  confident  Mr.  Flint  will  be  discreet,"  he  said,  and 
opened  a  door  at  the  far  end  of  the  room.  "If  you'll  step 
through  here,  Mr.  Rolfe,  the  Inspector  and  I  will  have  a  word 
with  you  before  we  proceed." 

I  stepped  through. 

I  had  thought  I  understood  the  case;  that  I  saw  all  the 
way  through  it.  I  had  been  let  deep  enough  into  it — farther 
than  anyone  except  Palke  himself.  But  when  I  returned  to 
the  front  office  ten  minutes  later  I  felt  very  much  as  a  man 


256  BLOOD    MONEY 

does  who  puts  his  horse  at  a  fence  and  finds  a  twenty-foot 
ditch  gaping  on  the  other  side.  .  .  . 

I  found  everybody  very  silent  in  that  gloomy  panelled 
room.  My  father  sat  at  the  table,  watching  me  thoughtfully. 
Palke's  face  was  utterly  expressionless.  Little  Charles  Flint 
was  scribbling  on  a  sketch-block  that  rested  on  his  knee. 
Pitt  Strachey  fiddled  with  a  paper-knife  and  couldn't  keep 
his  hands  still. 

For  my  part  I  was  certain  that  Michael  Power  wouldn't 
come  at  all. 

The  black  marble  clock  over  the  hearth  was  striking 
eleven,  and  the  sound  of  it  jarred  my  nerves.  Before  it  had 
finished  an  electric  bell  dinged  below  stairs.  A  clerk  brought 
up  a  note  which  he  handed  to  Strachey,  who  nodded  to  us 
and  went  down. 

Palke  was  sniffing  at  the  carnation  in  his  button-hole,  his 
eyes  half  closed  in  appreciation.  A  shuffling  of  feet  and  a 
sound  of  voices  on  the  landing. . . .  Strachey  opened  the  door, 
and  with  a  rather  strained  smile  that  didn't  sit  well  on  him, 
announced  his  visitor: 

"Mr.  Michael  Power." 


XLIV 
THE  MAN  WHO  KNEW 

S  o  we  had  him  at  last. 

I  had  been  dreading  that  moment  for  a  week.  Many  a 
time  I  had  felt  that  what  one  really  wanted  was  to  get  a 
good  tight  hold  on  Power's  throat  and  save  all  this  police 
stuff.  And  now,  I  was  not  sure.  I  didn't  know  what  to  make 
of  this  big  bareheaded  man  in  the  heavy  black  overcoat, 
who  faced  us  all  with  steady  eyes  and  a  firm  mouth. 

I  had  expected  either  a  brazen  crook  of  the  Maguire 
kind,  or  some  mean  little  wriggler  whose  greed  was  greater 
than  his  fears.  But  I  had  never  in  my  life  seen  anybody  more 
convincingly  respectable  than  Michael  Power. 

He  had  blue-grey,  kindly  eyes,  with  wrinkled  crow's-feet 
at  the  comers;  the  eyes  of  a  man  who  had  seen  trouble;  his 
hair  iron-grey,  at  the  temples  white.  Except  for  the  width 
across  his  temples  he  seemed  to  me  totally  unlike  Linke  in 
every  way,  and  I  began  to  wonder  if  some  basic  mistake 
hadn't  been  made.  He  was  evidently  suppressing  deep 
emotion  and  anxiety,  and  no  wonder.  With  simple  dignity 
he  turned  to  Strachey,  who  was  noiselessly  closing  the  door. 

"Say,  Mr.  Strachey — I  understood  this  interview  was  to 
be  private.  Who  are  these  gentlemen?" 

"Lord  Trent — at  whose  house  this  tragic  affair  which  we 
all  deplore  occurred,"  said  Strachey,  "Mr.  Kenyon  Rolfe, 
his  son " 

"And  mighty  glad  I  am  you're  both  here!"  said  Michael 
Power.  "When  I  say  privacy,  I  don't  mean  secrecy.  What  I 
want  is  the  truth." 

"The  truth,  I  hope,  is  within  the  four  walls  of  this  room 
Mike,"  said  Palke.  "It's  been  long  in  coming." 

"The  truth!  I  look  for  it  every  day,  like  Diogenes  with  his 


258  BLOOD    MONEY 

lantern,"  said  little  Flint  sympathetically,  "and  it's  hard  to 
come  by,  Mr.  Power.  I  am  a  waif  of  Fleet  Street,  a  nobody; 
Charles  Flint  of  the  Wire.  Just  an  amicus  curies — a  friend 
of  the  Court." 

"And  Mr.  Palke,"  interrupted  Strachey,  but  Power, 
paying  no  attention  to  him,  had  fixed  Palke  with  his  eye 
from  the  first,  and  walked  up  to  him. 

'Say,  what's  your  grade?  Captain?" 

"Inspector  we  call  it,  this  side,"  said  Palke.  "You  knew 
I  was  a  policeman,  Michael?" 

"Did  I  know!"  said  Power.  "What  are  the  police  for, 
Cap'en  Palke?  The  protection  of  the  innocent,  and  the 
punishment  of  evil-doers — some  such  bunk  as  that  I  learned 
when  I  was  a  kid!  That's  the  theory  of  police  work,  isn't 
it?" 

"Will  they  own  to  it,  if  they  make  a  mistake!  Take  a  look 
at  me!  I  come  of  an  unlucky  family — had  to  do  with  rotten 
folk  most  of  my  life;  steered  wide  of  them  and  went  straight. 
Do  you  know  where  I've  been  for  a  year  past?  Could  you 
tell  what  I  was?  Can  you  see  the  prison  look  in  a  man's 
eyes?  They  say  it's  a  thing  he  never  gets  rid  of.  Do  you 
police  believe  that?" 

"Look  at  me,  all  of  you!  Eighteen  months  of  hell,  shut 
out  of  the  world — put  away.  And  as  innocent  as  you  are 
Captain — Inspector,  whatever  you  call  yourself.  Just  put 
away!" 

Palke  nodded. 

"I've  known  such  things  happen.  I've  put  away  such  a  lot 
of  people  myself,"  he  said.  "So  you  were  put  away,  Michael. 
That's  tough  luck  on  any  man.  I'm  in  charge  of  this  case, 
and  when  you  have  dealt  with  Mr.  Strachey,  who  is  acting 
for  his  client.  Miss  Jane  Craddock — I'll  have  one  or  two 
questions  to  ask  you." 

"You  can  begin  with  them!"  said  Power. 


THE    MAN    WHO    KNEW  259 

"You  are  Michael  Power;  have  you  any  evidence  of 
identity?" 

The  visitor  laid  a  passport  on  the  table. 

"Correct.  Your  own  name;  and  photo,"  said  Palke.  "I've 
nothing  to  do  with  your  conviction  in  Canada;  you  were 
released  November  loth,  and  you  sailed  from  New  York, 
November  14th,  at  4  p.m.  Five  hours — ^without  counting  the 
difference  between  New  York  and  Greenwich  time — 
before  Elaine  Power  was  found  shot  at  Stan  ways.  So  you 
could  have  known  nothing  of  it,  unless  it  appeared  in  the 
ship's  radio  bulletins,  until  you  reached  England?" 

"Do  you  think  I  haven't  told  myself  that  a  hundred  times 
since  I  landed?"  said  Power,  bitterly.  "Is  that  all  the  police 
know;  or  are  they  as  dumb  here  as  in  Quebec?" 

"The  police  seldom  know  as  much  as  they'd  like  to  about 
any  case.  You  should  be  able  to  help  them.  You  are  Elaine 
Power's  husband;  you  married  her  in  '27  at  Dupont, 
Michigan.  Did  you  know  at  that  time  that  she  was  likely 
to  inherit  Benjamin  Slade's  money?" 

"You've  got  it  all  wrong-end  first — as  the  police  mostly 
do,"  said  Power  quietly.  "Now  listen.  When  I  asked  Ellen 
to  marry  me  I'd  have  taken  her  without  a  cent.  I'd  never 
heard  of  Benjy  Slade.  She  was  the  only  woman  I  ever 
wanted;  but  I  was  an  oldish  fellow  for  a  girl  like  her." 

"But  get  this,  and  get  it  good!  When  I  came  back  at  her 
a  year  later  and  asked  her  again,  then  I  knew  about  Benjy, 
and  believed  he  was  dead — as  everybody  did.  I  heard  he'd 
owned  some  land  in  the  oil  country,  and  who  he'd  left  it 
to  I  didn't  know — but  I  guessed  some  day  she  might  come 
into  a  bit  of  money.  That's  for  you — I'm  owning  to  it!  A  man 
needn't  be  crazy  because  he's  in  love,  an'  that  last  time  I 
offered  myself  and  agreed  to  wait  till  she  could  come  to  me 
handing  her  all  I'd  got  because  she  needed  help — why,  I 
had  to  safeguard  myself  to  see  I  didn't  lose  everything! 


260  BLOOD    MONEY 

We  made  a  contract  between  us  and  it  was  fair — ask  the 
world  if  it  wasn't  fair!  That  anybody  should  believe  Benjy 
had  had  millions  to  leave — why,  even  the  police  would  never 
have  credited  it!  No  one  on  earth  as  much  as  guessed  it — 
till  it  happened.  I  never  learned  of  it  till  I  came  out,  ten 
days  back." 

"News!  There  was  never  any  news  of  her  .  .  .  nothing  but 
a  scrap  in  a  paper  weeks  old,  that  Elaine  Corbyn  was  gone 
to  England,  or  going.  See  that!"  He  gave  a  faded  news- 
clipping  to  Palke,  crumpled  and  soiled.  "Guess  what  I'd 
have  had  for  tearin'  that  out  of  a  sheet  in  the  jail  library — 
that's  where  I  got  it,  and  the  first  I'd  heard  of  her  in  years 
— even  that  had  to  come  to  me  in  jail.  Tried  the  office  where 
that  was  published — they'd  tell  me  nothing,  and  all  I  found 
in  two  days  search  was  her  name  in  a  liner's  passenger 
list."  He  thrust  it  before  Palke.  ''Elaine  Corbyn — we  used 
to  laugh  over  that  dago  name  she  was  christened.  .  .  .  She 
was  always  Ellen  to  me." 

His  voice  was  husky  and  broken;  I  couldn't  get  my  gaze 
away  from  those  haunted  eyes  of  his.  The  man  fascinated 
me.  Despite  his  emotion,  his  manner  was  amazingly  re- 
strained and  convincing.  I  caught  a  glance  from  Charlie 
Flint,  puzzled  and  anxious. 

"Nothing  about  me  there!"  said  Power,  pointing  to  the 
crumpled  paragraph  in  Palke's  hand.  "Corbyn  .  .  .  she  never 
used  my  name.  That  was  right  enough — that  was  in  the 
contract.  I  was  just  a  dead-beat,  lost  in  a  Canuke  jail — 
she  couldn't  know  that;  I  was  dead  for  all  she  could  tell." 
The  Adam's  apple  worked  in  his  throat;  he  turned  away  for 
a  moment  and  was  silent,  then  faced  us  again.  "Honest  to 
God,  I  believe  she  tried  to  find  me.  ...  I  believe  she  did  her 
best!" 

"So  it  was  up  to  me,  and  I'm  a  man  that's  hard  to  stop, 
as  you'll  know  before  you've  done  with  me.  I  sailed  by  the 


THEMANWHOKNEW  261 

first  boat,  an'  when  the  papers  were  put  aboard  at  Queens- 
town  I  got  this  news — this  awful  news.  And  yesterday 
this!"  He  flung  a  tattered  copy  of  the  Wire  on  Palke's 
desk, his  Hp  quivering.". . .  Stanhope  and  Strachey, Lincoln's 
Inn  .  .  .  and  a  statement  from  a  girl  I  never  heard  of  who 
figures  in  poor  Ellen's  will — offering  me  money!  Damn  you 
and  your  money,  and  Slade's  too,  that  brought  her  to  this! 
And  here  am  I,  of  my  own  free  will,  facing  you,  asking  you 
for  the  truth,  and  played  for  a  liar  by  all  of  you!" 

"Steady,  Michael,"  said  Palke  gently. 

"Steady!  It's  easy  to  say  steady  to  a  man  who's  up  against 
it  like  this.  Ellen  would  have  treated  me  white  . . .  she  always 
played  fair,  and  now  she's  gone  can  any  of  you  give  her 
back  to  me?  You,  or  your  tame  lawyer,  or  this  Lord  What-is-it 
who  sneers  at  me  because  he  thinks  I  came  here  for  money!" 

"Mr.  Power,  I  know  my  own  weaknesses  too  well  to 
sneer  at  any  man,"  said  my  father.  "I  have  an  unfortunate 
belief,"  he  added,  "that  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  men 
out  of  a  thousand  find  money  dangerously  attractive,  but  I 
am  quite  prepared  to  believe  you  are  the  thousandth  man." 

"Mr.  Power,  let  me  make  our  position  clear,"  said 
Strachey.  "If  yours  is  as  impregnable  as  it  appears  to  be,  you 
have  nothing  to  fear.  Mine  is  a  simple  one;  I  am  to  offer 
the  sum  of  ,(^20,000  to  the  husband  of  Elaine  Power,  pro- 
viding legal  proof  of  his  identity  is  forthcoming;  on  behalf 
of  my  client.  I  don't  say  I  approve  of  this,  but  I  shall  carry 
out  my  instructions.  It  is  open  to  him,  of  course,  to  decHne 
it  if  he  wishes.  Do  you  accept  or  decline?" 

For  a  fraction  of  a  moment  Michael  Power  hesitated. 

That  moment  placed  Power  among  the  discards. 

I  think  it  was  the  expression  of  his  face  more  than  any- 
thing else.  Till  then  a  growing  doubt  had  crept  into  me;  a 
fear  that  after  all  we  were  arraigning  an  innocent  man. 


262  BLOOD    MONEY 

And  I  don't  believe  I  was  the  only  one  in  the  room  who 
thought  so. 

But  now — I  understood  the  vital  difference  there  is 
between  reading  a  trial  in  the  paper,  and  seeing  the  witness 
in  the  box. 

Power  turned  his  back  on  Palke,  and  facing  Strachey, 
seemed  to  grow  an  inch  or  two  taller. 

"Was  that  Ellen's  money?"  he  said. 

"  It  was." 

"Then  this  girl,  who's  giving  it  up,  feels  she  has  no  right 
to  it?  That's  queer.  Does  she  give  up  her  half  share,  of  what 
poor  Ellen  could  leave — do  I  give  up  mine,  for  this  ^(^20,000? 
Is  that  it?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"Listen  now!"  Power  struck  his  hand  on  the  desk.  "I'd 
fling  that  money  in  your  face  and  hers,  only  that  there's  one 
thing  on  this  earth  I  need  it  for — to  find  Ellen!  To  find  her, 
dead  or  living,  an'  if  there's  anyone  drove  her  to  her  death 
— if  there's  been  foul  play — to  put  them  that's  guilty  where 
they  belong.  Let  me  see  this  girl — and  I'll  say  the  same  to 
her  in  front  of  you  all.  I'll  try  whether  I  can  do  what  you 
and  your  sleuths  have  failed  on!" 

"You  may  not  realise  how  the  Law  ties  our  hands,"  said 
Palke.  "Of  course,  Michael,  you  would  rather  have  found 
your  wife  living,  than  twenty  thousand  pounds — or  even 
three  millions?" 

"Would  I — what?"  said  Power  hotly.  "It's  only  one  of 
your  trade  would  dare  say  a  thing  like  that  to  a  man.  Would 
you  like  it  said  to  you?"  He  clenched  his  hands,  and  let  them 
fall  despairingly  to  his  sides.  "My  Ellen!  Look  here — look 
at  that  .  .  .  my  marriage  certificate  .  .  .  Michael  Power  .  .  . 
Elaine  Corbyn  .  .  .  And  me  that's  come  three  thousand 
miles  seekin'  her.  ...  Is  that  enough?" 

"Plenty,"  said  Palke,  and  rose.  "Now  we  can  get  to  it. 


THE    MAN    WHO    KNEW  263 

Michael,  if  I've  failed  I  can  at  least  refer  you  to  somebody 
who  has  succeeded,  and  to  whom  the  credit  of  this  case  is 
due.  This  seems  a  good  time  to  do  it." 

He  pressed  the  bell,  and  drew  out  the  chair  from  before 
the  typing  desk. 

The  door  at  the  end  of  the  room  opened,  and  Elaine 
Corbyn  walked  in;  her  own  cool,  authoritative  self.  .  .  . 

I  never  saw  her  look  more  attractive,  nor  more  uncon- 
cerned. It  was  a  wonderful  moment.  She  glanced  at  us  all 
with  a  little  nod,  and  just  that  faint  smile  which  always 
meant  trouble  for  somebody. 

My  father  rose  courteously;  so  did  Charles  Flint.  As  she 
came  forward  every  man  in  the  room  was  on  his  feet. 
None  of  us  spoke. 

Michael,  his  flood  of  eloquence  dried  up,  looked  at  her 
for  a  moment  or  two  and  turned  inquiringly  to  Palke. 

"Who  is  this  lady?" 

"This,"  said  Palke,  "is  Jane  Craddock  Carthew,  of  the 
Records  Office,  Department  of  Criminal  Investigation,  New 
York,  that  city  from  which  you  sailed  in  such  a  hurry. 
Your  heart's  desire  is  achieved,  Michael — she  has  put  this 
gang  of  crooks  where  they  belong.  And  if  I  could  wish  that 
she  had  remained  in  the  safety  of  the  Records  Office,  it  is 
not  because  she  has  beaten  me  on  my  own  ground." 

Elaine  smiled. 

"If  you've  finished  dropping  bouquets,  Jimmy,  we'll  wind 
this  case  up,"  she  said,  and  seating  herself  calmly  at  the 
typewriter  she  began  to  tap  out  a  heading  without  taking 
the  slightest  notice  of  any  of  us. 

Palke  turned  to  Power  with  an  eye  as  hard  as  flint. 

"I  have  bad  news  for  you,  Michael,"  he  said.  "Such 
things  seldom  come  singly.  You  lose  three  millions,  which 
it  is  quite  possible  that  you  might  have  got  away  with.  You 


264  BLOOD    MONEY 

also  lose  j^20,ooo.  We  find  you  fail  to  qualify  for  either 
claim." 

"Here's  the  original  will  that  Elaine  Corby n  signed  on 
the  day  of  your  marriage  with  her."  He  laid  on  the  desk  a 
folded  document,  torn  across  in  four  pieces.  "The  will 
made  at  Stanways  has  balanced  accounts  by  bringing  you 
and  your  ingenious  friends  to  justice." 

"Lastly,  one  or  two  facts  which  you  have  missed  by  being 
so  far  out  of  range;  Stephen  Power  is  dead.  Your  brother- 
in-law,  Jake  Maguire,  is  at  Hertford  Station  on  a  charge  of 
murder.  Kathleen  Maguire — is  under  arrest  in  London, 
accessory  to  the  same  charge.  As  for  you,  Michael,  with 
the  alibi,  we  have  been  waiting  for  you  since  you  sailed." 


XLV 
THE  FINAL  WITNESS 

Power  stared  at  him,  swaying  slightly  on  his  feet.  The 
man's  face  was  grey  and  mottled;  for  the  first  time  there  was 
unmistakable  terror  in  his  eyes. 

"One  more  witness  you  have  to  meet,"  said  Palke,  and 
opened  the  farther  door  again. 

Jenny  walked  in;  rather  timid,  rather  pale,  but  her  self- 
possession  came  back  to  her  as  she  faced  Michael  Power. 
He  stared  at  her  as  if  turned  to  stone. 

"Ellen!  .  .  ."  he  said  huskily.  "Ellen!  .  .  ." 

It  was  Jane  Carthew  who  rose  from  the  typewriter,  put  an 
affectionate  arm  round  Jenny,  and  pulled  out  the  arm-chair 
for  her. 

"Sit  right  there,  dear,"  she  said.  "We  won't  be  a  minute 
with  him." 

"Didn't  expect  this,  Ellen.  .  .  ."  said  Power,  huskily.  "I 
always  played  straight  with  you." 

"But  you  didn't,"  said  Jenny  quietly.  "That's  just  the 
trouble,  Michael." 

Suddenly  he  collapsed  into  a  chair,  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands,  and  blubbered  Uke  a  child. 

"Captain,  you've  got  nothing  on  me  !  Honest  to  mercy 
you  haven't.  There  she  is — what  harm  have  I  done  her? 
What  harm  has  anyone  done  her?" 

The  lawyer  was  watching  him  with  cold,  inexorable  eyes, 
as  if  he  were  waiting  for  Palke  to  move.  But  it  was  Jenny — 
neither  then  nor  afterwards  could  I  think  of  her  by  any  name 
but  that — who  spoke. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  one  question,  Michael." 

He  looked  up  eagerly,  ignoring  us  all  and  turning  to  her. 


266  BLOOD    MONEY 

"Yes?"  he  said. 

"Did  you  know,  when  you  went  through  that  form  of 
marriage  with  me,  that  your  wife  was  living?"  said  Jenny. 

Power  gasped. 

"How  could  I  know?  I  never  knew  till — till " 

For  a  moment  he  checked  himself. 

"...  till  just  before  I  was  arrested  in  Quebec  and  went 
down  for  eighteen  months.  An'  that's  God's  truth!" 

Jane  Carthew  stripped  the  sheet  of  paper  from  the 
typewriter. 

"Sure  of  that,  Michael?"  she  said.  "Put  your  name  to 
this — *I,  Michael  Power  of  Deer  Lake,  Michigan,  declare 
that  when  I  went  through  a  form  of  marriage  with  Elaine 

Corbyn  in  1927,  at ,  fill  in  the  place  and  date  here 

— I  believed  that  there  was  no  legal  impediment  to  the 
marriage,   and  that  my  wife,   Kathleen  Power,   whom   I 

married  at ,  place  and  date  again,  fill  them  in  with 

your  own  hand — was  dead.'  " 

Power  looked  up  at  her  as  she  stood  over  him,  and  at 
Palke's  stony,  expressionless  face. 

"Think  it  over.  Give  you  one  minute,"  said  Jane  Carthew. 

He  picked  up  the  pen  mechanically,  and  wrote.  It  was  as 
much  as  he  could  do  to  control  the  shaking  of  his  fingers. 
She  watched  his  hand  as  he  filled  in  the  dates,  and  taking 
the  paper  from  him  handed  it  to  Palke,  who  glanced  at  it  and 
passed  it  to  Strachey.  Power  sat  staring  before  him  dully. 

"Steve  gone?  Thought  he  was  done,  long  ago.  Katty  .  .  . 
there's  nothing  I'd  put  past  her.  Nor  that  devil  Jake.  I  didn't 
know.  .  .  ." 

"You  didn't  know!  What  brought  you  here  seeking 
Elaine  Corbyn?"  said  Palke.  "Michael,  you  paid  your 
passage  with  a  hundred-dollar  bill — one  of  five  sent  to  you 
from  London." 

Power  swayed  blindly  in  his  chair. 


THE    FINAL    WITNESS  267 

"Came  to  find  her  .  .  .  warn  her.  Came  on  my  own  .  .  . 
can't  you  understand?  And  there  she  is!  Lord,  you're  tearin' 
the  heart  out  of  me!" 

He  droppgi  his  arms  on  the  desk  and  buried  his  face  in 
them,  crying  ferokenly.  A  moment's  pause  and  Jenny  rose, 
her  face  flushed  and  her  eyes  shining. 

"Stop  bullying  him,  all  of  you!"  she  said. 

She  went  to  Michael's  side,  touched  him  lightly  on  the 
shoulder.  He  looked  up,  his  face  pulpy  and  tear-stained.  He 
stared  dumbly  at  a  sheaf  of  rustling  notes  that  she  laid  before 
him. 

"A  debt,  Michael,"  she  said,  and  turned  to  Charles  Flint. 
"The  door!  Please!  Let  him  go." 

She  looked  at  Palke.  Not  a  muscle  of  his  lean  grim  face 
moved.  He  said  nothing  when  Flint,  after  a  glance  at  him, 
softly  opened  the  door.  Power  peered  at  us  all  for  a  second, 
dazed,  his  hand  closing  nervously  on  the  sheaf  of  notes. 

Then  he  faded  out  of  the  room  like  a  black  shadow.  I 
heard  a  rustle  on  the  stairway  and  he  was  gone. 

Charlie  Flint  closed  the  door  with  a  thrust  of  his  foot  and 
turned  to  us,  his  eyes  dancing. 

"The  perfect  ending.  Miss  Corbyn,  I  congratulate  you. 
And  you,  Mr.  Rolfe.  And  Jimmy!  But  most  of  all,  our  lady 
of  the  Records." 

He  seized  his  hat. 

"Thescoopof  a  century!  Give  me  an  hour'sstart,  Jimmy — 
I'll  be  as  discreet  as  I  can." 

"Good-bye  Charlie.  YouVe  been  a  firm  ally;  you  and  the 
PFtVf,"  said  Palke.  A  whirlwind  on  the  stairs,  and  Charlie 
Flint  had  left  us. 

My  father  was  laughing  softly.  Jenny  came  to  my  side, 
her  hand  stole  into  mine.  Palke  alone  wore  a  face  of  un- 
diminished gloom. 

"I  was  afraid  of  this;  right  from  the  beginning.  What 


268  BLOOD    MONEY 

did  I  tell  you,  Rolfe?  But  after  all  there's  nothing  we  can 
hold  him  for  except  bigamy — not  an  extraditable  offence." 

"We  can  always  get  him  if  we  want  him,"  said  Jane 
Carthew,  picking  up  the  typed  sheet  that  Power  had  signed. 

"Are  you  accepting  that  confession  as  fact,  Palke?"  said 
Strachey. 

"Fact!"  said  Palke,  "the  only  fact  I  wanted — unless  I 
could  hang  him — was  the  admission  that  the  woman  in  the 
cell  at  Vintner  Street  is  his  wife.  I  never  even  suspected  it." 

"What  hold  had  Kathleen  over  Michael  Power?  It  must 
have  been  a  pretty  strong  one.  Jane  Carthew's  beUef — an 
inspiration  if  you  like — was  that  it  was  marriage." 

"That  question  to  Michael,  prompted  by  Jane  Carthew 
and  timed  at  the  exact  moment,  was  a  stroke  of  genius. 
There  was  only  one  answer  to  it,  and  having  given  it  he 
had  to  stand  by  it,  or  condemn  himself  out  of  his  own 
mouth." 

"Central  Office  has  records  of  Kathleen  Maguire,  sister 
to  Jake,  but  none  connecting  her  in  any  way  with  Power, 
and  it's  exceedingly  unlikely  we'd  ever  have  got  on  to  that 
marriage.  Very  little  was  known  about  her;  for  six  years 
past  she's  been  lost  sight  of  entirely.  And  if  we  hadn't 
got  her  at  Vintner  Street  we  might  have  believed — as  Michael 
says  he  believed — that  she  was  dead," 

"That  broken  crook  who  has  just  gone  out  would,  I 
think,  have  been  content  to  compromise  with  Elaine  Corbyn 
any  time  for  whatever  he  could  get.  Though  I  do  not 
credit  his  story,  I  don't  believe  now  that  murder  was  ever 
in  his  mind.  The  Maguires  would  have  put  that  scheme 
through,  but  for  Jane  Carthew — and  let  me  add.  Lord 
Trent — they  might  well  have  got  away  with  it." 

"So  exit  Michael,  and  he  leaves  us  something  of  the  first 
value  to  Miss  Corbyn — and  I  suppose  I  may  say,  to  you, 
Mr.  Rolfe." 


THE    FINAL    WITNESS  269 

His  ill-humour  was  forgotten,  he  turned  to  us  both,  his 
eyes  laughing  and  alight  with  friendliness. 

"  No  need  for  the  machinery  of  the  law  and  it's  delays. 
No  compulsion  to  sue  for  the  cutting  of  any  thread  that 
binds  you  to  Powers  or  Maguires,  Sing-Sing  or  the  Old 
Bailey.  That  marriage  was  no  marriage,  and  Miss  Corby n 
is  free  right  there  where  she  stands." 

I  felt  Jenny's  hand  tighten  on  mine.  And  if  I  were  a 
king  and  had  a  brace  of  peerages  to  bestow,  I  would  have 
given  them  to  Palke  and  Jane  Carthew  at  that  moment. 
Strachey  paid  his  tribute  too;  he  turned  to  the  Inspector, 
laughing. 

"It's  not  the  first  time  I've  heard  a  policeman  cursing 
the  machinery  of  the  law,  Palke!"  he  said,  "and  I've  never 
done  such  violence  to  my  professional  code  as  in  this  case. 
But  without  a  regret.  I  haven't  the  amateur's  tenderness 
for  murderers.  My  sympathy  was  all  for  Miss  Corbyn.  And 
now  I  think  you'd  like  to  have  this  room  to  yourselves." 

He  bowed  to  Jenny  and  my  father,  and  left  us. 

"Cheer  up,  Jim!"  said  Jane  Carthew.  "See  how  pleased 
everybody's  looking!  And  this  room's  damp  enough,  the  way 
Michael  wept  all  over  the  floor." 

She  turned  to  my  father. 

"Does  it  shock  you,  Lord  Trent,  to  hear  me  call  the 
Inspector  Jimmy?  We  all  do  it  at  D.C.I,  headquarters, 
we're  a  friendly  crowd  there — they  call  me  Jane.  He  often 
comes  over  to  us  on  extradition  cases;  I've  been  his  colleague 
before.  You  needn't  believe  him  when  he  throws  all  that 
credit  of  the  case  over  to  me — it's  his  way.  I've  a  great 
respect  for  Jimmy." 

"It's  nothing  to  the  respect,  mingled  with  awe,  that  I've 
had  for  you  ever  since  you  came  to  Stanways,  Jane,"  said  my 
father.  "Years  ago  during  the  War  many  women  wore 
breeches,  and  they  don't  seem  to  have  got  over  the  habit; 


270  BLOOD    MONEY 

I've  even  seen  policewomen  on  the  streets  in  blue  tunics 
and  helmets.  Our  betters,  since  they  shortened  their  hair 
and  skirts,  are  breaking  records  daily  on  land,  sea  and  in  the 
air.  But  I  didn't  know " 

"That  there  were  women  detectives?"  laughed  Jane 
Carthew,  "and  you  were  right.  Mine  was  a  sheltered  berth 
in  the  Records  Office.  On  every  police  headquarters  staff 
there  are  women  on  women's  jobs;  D.C.I.,  Yard,  Paris 
Surete — officially  none  of  them  are  sleuths,  but  now  and 
then  they  are  turned  loose  on  an  executive  case — not  often, 
because  there's  a  rule  that  they  don't  go  into  the  witness 
stand.  I've  had  the  luck  to  make  a  hit  in  one  or  two  big 
shows,  and  my  Chief  trusts  me.  I  guess  I've  given  him  a 
shock  this  time." 

"You've  certainly  shocked  Power  and  the  Maguires. 
If  I  had  suspected " 

"Come  now.  Lord  Trent!"  said  Jane,  "you  may  not  have 
guessed  you  were  entertaining  a  policeman,  but  as  between 
Jenny  and  me — I've  been  calling  her  Jenny  for  two  months 
and  I've  got  the  habit — ^you  knew  within  a  dozen  hours 
that  I  was  the  fake  and  she  was  the  real  thing.  You're  just 
about  the  quickest  man  I  know." 

"True  Jane.  I  did  have  that  suspicion.  If  I'd  been  really 
quick  I  should  have  known  it  at  first  sight." 

"Yes!  But  then  I'd  have  known  you  were  the  crook  I 
was  looking  for,  and  your  troubles  would  soon  have  been 
over.  Any  man  or  woman  who  could  pick  Jenny  out  from 
the  pair  of  us  on  sight,  would  have  been  taped,  right  away." 

"That's  why  I  changed  jobs  with  Jenny  before  we  started 
for  England.  A  change  which  took  some  getting  away  with, 
and  which  I  wouldn't  have  touched  under  any  other 
conditions;  nobody  who  knew  Jenny  could  mistake  me  for 
her.  For  that  very  reason — particularly  over  here  three 
thousand  miles  from  home — it  was  sound." 


THEFINALWITNESS  271 

"It  was  sound;  and  it  was  horribly  dangerous,"  said 
Jenny.  "I'll  never  forgive  myself  to  the  end  of  time  for 
letting  you  do  it." 

Jane  laughed. 

"You  couldn't  help  yourself,  dear  child.  Neither  of  us 
knew  what  we  were  up  against.  And  now,  who's  going  to 
clear  up  the  Stan  ways  mystery,  while  the  Court  sits?  Tell 
them,  Jenny!" 

Jenny  shook  her  head. 

"  I  leave  it  to  you,  partner — please!"  said  she. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Jane  Carthew.  "Members  of  the 
Jury,  there'll  be  no  recommendation  to  mercy." 


XLVI 
THE  TRAP 

"Jenny  would  never  have  spilled  me  the  story  if  she 
hadn't  been  all  wrought  up,  one  night  in  my  flat  in  New 
York,  and  had  to  tell  somebody;  I  was  the  only  friend  she'd 
got.  That  was  nearly  a  month  after  the  Slade  inheritance 
fell  in." 

"We  were  raised  in  the  same  home  town,  but  I'd  never 
heard  of  Power,  he  was  since  my  time.  I'd  found  her  a 
job  when  she  came  east  in  the  summer,  and  I'd  no  idea 
she'd  come  into  all  that  money  till  I  got  home  after  a 
vacation  and  found  her  in  worse  trouble  than  when  she 
was  poor". 

"Of  course  I  gave  her  the  only  advice  anyone  could  give. 
But  would  she  have  it?  You  know  how  obstinate  Jenny  can 
be.  She  couldn't  go  back  on  Power.  She  was  his  wife,  she 
had  taken  his  money,  he'd  always  played  fair,  there  was 
nothing  to  show  he  wasn't  straight — in  fact  all  the  stuff  you 
heard  just  now  from  Michael." 

"One  could  see  her  point  of  view.  But  directly  I  got  that 
story  I  took  it  privately  to  D.C.I,  headquarters  and  got  our 
Records  Office  to  tracing  Michael  Power." 

"My  Chief  didn't  think  there  was  much  to  it.  'This  man 
Power  is  dead,'  said  he,  *or  he'd  have  claimed  long  before 
now.  We've  nothing  on  him,  but  dead  or  alive  we'll  tail 
him  up.'" 

"  'There's  a  Power  on  our  register  with  a  bunch  of  names 
and  three  convictions  for  blackmail,'  said  I.  'Can  I  have  the 
job  of  looking  after  this  girl  and  watching  the  case  from  her 
end  while  they're  tailing  Michael?  There  are  six  millions 
behind  it  and  it's  worth  watching;  it  won't  cost  the  Office 
anything.* " 


THE    TRAP  273 

"And  the  chief  said:  'Go  to  it,  Jane,  it's  your  job.  Get 
in  touch  with  us  and  we'll  keep  you  posted.'" 

"I  never  beUeved  Power  was  dead.  I  was  out  to  get  him, 
and  anybody  who  might  be  in  this  crook  game  with  him. 
But  I  didn't  put  that  up  to  Jenny.  There  was  a  chance  that 
he'd  gone  out;  there  was  a  smaller  chance  that,  if  living,  he 
was  straight.  And  though  Jenny  put  as  brave  a  face  on  it 
as  she  could,  she'd  have  given  anything  to  be  quit  of  it. 
What  was  her  life  going  to  be,  with  this  thing  hanging  over 
her?" 

"I  told  her  I  would  see  her  safe  and  clear  of  it  all,  if  I  had 
her  word  to  obey  my  instructions  and  never  go  back  on  them 
or  let  me  down.  I  knew  I  could  rely  on  Jenny;  she  knew  she 
could  rely  on  me." 

"She'd  had  sense  enough  to  lie  quiet  and  insisted  on 
Slade's  lawyers  giving  no  information.  There  was  a  dame 
called  Alice  Vanneck,  who  got  on  to  the  story  of  the  Corby n 
money  through  the  lawyers'  office.  She  specialised  in  business 
and  social  introductions;  one  of  those  touts  ever\  body  knows 
who  are  always  nosing  out  a  percentage  for  themselves. 
Jenny  asked  her  to  keep  the  thing  quiet,  said  she  wanted  no 
publicity  and  was  leaving  for  Europe  as  soon  as  the  estate 
was  settled." 

"Mrs.  Vanneck  proposed  an  introduction  to  Lord  Trent, 
who  had  a  country  house  in  England  and  took  guests;  she 
could  be  as  quiet  as  she  liked  there,  and  do  as  she  pleased. 
Jenny  was  all  for  it.  It  would  keep  Mrs.  Vanneck  quiet  too; 
naturally  there'd  be  a  good  rake-off  for  her." 

"It  sounded  all  right — well  out  of  harm's  way.  But  when 
I  went  into  this  Stanways  proposition,  it  looked  to  me  like 
a  frame-up." 

"My  unfortunate  reputation!"  sighed  Dad.  Jane  laughed. 

"I  don't  know  that  it  was  your  reputation.  Lord  Trent, 
so  much  as  Ken's." 


274  BLOOD    MONEY 

"Don't  mind  my  feelings  "  said  I,  "Am  I  taped  in  the 
Records  office,  too?" 

"You  were — lucky,"  said  Jane.  "You  were  mixed  in  some 
queer  doings  on  our  side,  and  got  clear  of  them.  You're  a 
nice  big  tough,  and  I  rather  took  to  you  at  Stanways.  I 
tried  you  out,  and  if  the  acid  made  you  sore  sometimes, 
remember  I  was  watch-dog  to  Jenny,  who  hasn't  forgiven 
me  some  of  the  things  I  did  to  you." 

"If  I  was  in  the  dark,  so  was  the  opposition.  It  looked 
all  right  from  their  end.  The  Linke  inquest  had  led  nowhere; 
the  police  evidently  at  a  loss.  The  watchers  were  holding  off 
to  see  if  the  going  was  still  good;  they  weren't  quitters,  those 
sort  of  crooks  seldom  are.  They  needed  a  certainty.  And  I 
determined  they  should  have  it." 

"Directly  Jenny  was  shifted  safely  out  of  Stanways,  I 
laid  my  trap  for  them,  and  a  dandy  one  it  was,  though  I  had 
to  turn  the  plan  round  later.  How  else  are  you  to  get  a 
crook,  in  a  dark  game  like  that,  unless  you  trap  him?  Any- 
thing's  better  than  letting  it  hang  over  you  indefinitely." 

"I  drew  up  that  will,  and  had  it  properly  signed  and 
witnessed.  It  had  no  value — except  that  it  put  the  Power 
gang  where  I  wanted  them.  Of  course  I  never  intended 
being  the  bait  myself;  I'm  not  so  heroic  as  all  that." 

"Jim  Palke  had  only  a  misty  idea  what  I  was  doing  at 
Stanways,  and  didn't  like  my  being  there  at  all.  I  was  mad 
with  him  when  he  posted  his  tame  policeman  to  look  after 
me,  and  drive  Jenny's  car." 

"The  shover!"  I  exclaimed.  "Was  he ?" 

"Yes — the  dumb  McRae.  He's  a  C  Division  policeman 
and  an  old  soldier;  he  just  hung  round  and  kept  the  car  nice." 

"I  gave  the  Watcher  on  Stanways  his  chance  to  get  into 
my  room  and  find  out  all  he  wanted;  the  trap  was  set  for 
the  monkey's  paw.  I'll  own  right  now,  I  didn't  realise 
it  was  a  tiger  rather  than  a  monkey  that  I  was  up  against. 


THE    TRAP  275 

But  I'm  always  for  taking  a  chance;  safety  first  gets  you  no- 
where in  poHce  work.  And  of  course  I  didn't  know  I  was 
dealing  with  Maguire,  I  thought  it  was  some  spy  of  Michael's 
nosing  out  information  for  his  chief.  There  were  plenty  of 
ways  of  holding  up  Elaine  for  a  slice  of  the  Slade  legacy, 
and  I  didn't  believe  Michael  would  go  the  whole  hog  and  risk 
the  gallows." 

"Now  I  was  ready  for  Jim  Palke's  help.  I  couldn't  chance 
a  failure  by  trying  to  finish  the  job,  single-handed;  I  knew 
there  was  more  than  one  in  it.  Jim  was  over  at  Wheatbridge 
with  Begbie.  The  night  of  the  14th.  And  that  same  night 
Jenny  stalled  me  by  coming  back  to  Stanways — flat  against 
my  orders!" 

"She'd  been  good  enough  till  then.  Now  she  tore  every- 
thing loose.  Said  we'd  got  to  cut  it  out . . .  she  wouldn't  have 
me  running  risks  on  her  account — had  never  realised  the 
way  it  was  going — wouldn't  stand  for  it  another  hour. 
And  she  wanted  to  know  what  I  was  doing  to  you,  Ken!" 

"I  was  furious  with  Jenny.  We  had  our  first  big  row — up 
in  my  room.  When  she  left  me  I  was  shaken  up  ;  and  it 
takes  something  to  shake  me.  I  started  overhauling  my 
baggage — and  that's  when  I  found  that  the  Watcher  had  got 
on  to  it!  Somebody  had  climbed  into  my  room  while  we  were 
at  dinner  and  gone  through  my  bureau  and  papers  with  a 
fine-tooth  comb;  done  it  very  neatly  and  professionally  too. 

"Nothing  would  have  pleased  me  better — if  only  Jenny 
were  away.  I  hurried  down  to  dig  her  out . . .  and  I  found  her 
in  the  gun-room  with  you,  Ken!  I  butted  into  a  scene  that 
was  never  meant  for  me.  ..." 

"I  knew  that  would  happen  sooner  or  later.  And  by  this 
time  you'd  got  me  on  your  side.  I  dodged  out  again;  it  would 
have  been  too  heartless  to  interrupt  you  like  that." 

"I  was  feeling  wrought  up  and  excited — slipped  away  to 
the  morning-room,  where  I  knew  I'd  be  alone,  to  think 


276  BLOOD    MONEY 

things  out.  Standing  by  the  old  marble  clock  on  the  mantel, 
I  said  to  myself:  'We'll  give  those  two  babies  five  minutes; 
Ken  shall  drive  her  back  to  town  for  me — I'll  be  quit  of 
them  both.'" 

"Then  ...  I  was  off  my  guard  and  I'd  switched  the  lights 
on;  a  fool  thing  to  do,  no  doubt  .  .  .  the  window-sash  was 
snapped  up  behind  me  and  I  whipped  round,  reaching  for 
my  little  gun.  ..." 


XLVII 
CONCLUSION 

You  were  right,  Ken.  A  woman  shouldn't  depend  on  a 
gun;  she  may  think  she's  sound  but  she'll  never  be  in  the 
Maguire  class.  The  gun  wasn't  part  of  my  plan  anyway. 
But  plan — trap — everything  went  west  and  I  was  down  and 
out,  feeling  as  if  my  head  was  blown  off.  Have  a  bullet  cut 
the  veins  over  your  temple,  and  you'll  know.  Just  a  bad 
graze;  but  the  mess  it  makes  of  you!" 

"I  never  knew  what  hit  me;  it  was  all  a  blurred  dream 
till  Ken  came  and  picked  me  up.  I  tried  to  speak  to  him, 
and  then  everything  sort  of  blacked  out  and  I  don't  remember 
anything  more  till  I  found  myself  sitting  up,  feeling  mighty 
weak,  alone  in  that  room.  And  then  ...  it  didn't  take  thirty 
seconds  to  get  me  fairly  awake.  One  thing  I  learned  that 
night — if  you  get  knocked  out  it's  wonderful  how  a  little 
bleeding  clears  your  brain!  I  don't  believe  I  ever  thought 
quicker  in  my  life." 

"I  guessed  what  Ken  was  doing  .  .  .  and  there  was  the 
window  tight  shut,  and  the  gun  lying  close  by.  Then  up 
slid  the  window  and  in  tumbled  old  McRae  with  a  face  on 
him  like  doom.  He'd  heard  the  shot  and  came  chasing  round 
to  see  what  was  doing.  He  was  babbling  about  a  doctor.  I 
got  it  into  his  head  that  I  wasn't  hurt  and  that  his  job  was  to 
get  me  into  the  car  and  away  to  Wheatbridge  police-station." 

"Mac  jumped  to  it.  He  ran  me  down  the  drive  like  a 
mother  carrying  her  nursling,  and  as  soon  as  the  Rolls  was 
started — *  Now!'  I  said,  'whizz  me  along  to  Jim  Palke  as  fast 
as  you  can  burn  the  ground — keep  your  lights  dowsed  and 
your  head  shut!  We're  going  to  round  up  a  murder  gang, 
you  and  I  Mac — the  thug  that  shot  at  me  is  fixed  to  fall  for 
it  with  both  feet!  Let  the  doc  wait.' " 


278  BLOOD    MONEY 

**I  bound  up  my  head  with  a  scarf  and  hardly  knew  I  was 
hurt.  I'd  been  hunted  long  enough;  now  I  was  the  hunter, 
and  it  was  better  even  than  I'd  figured  on  .  .  .  the  plan  was 
flashing  up  in  front  of  me  all  the  way." 

"Jim  and  Begbie  were  already  at  Stanways  before  we  made 
the  station  house.  The  duty  sergeant  nearly  threw  a  fit 
when  I  blew  in  with  my  head  tied  up  like  a  pudding  and 
blood  on  my  dress  .  .  .  but  he  got  me  to  the  'phone  and  I  had 
Jim  at  the  end  of  the  wire  and  wised  him." 

"It  was  a  game  Jim  Palke  could  play  out  better  than  any 
man  on  earth.  'Elaine  Corbyn's  shot — broadcast  that  and 
let  it  stand  till  to-morrow,'  I  said.  'String  the  gang  along  .  .  . 
let  'em  find  out  who  got  away  with  her  and  why.  Wait  for 
them  to  make  the  next  move,  and  you'll  have  them.  You'll 
find  Elaine's  will  and  all  her  papers  in  the  bureau,  and  I'm 
here  when  you  want  me.' " 

"You  don't  have  to  spell  out  the  book  of  words  for  Jim. 
That's  all  I  had  time  to  tell  him — except  that  I  wasn't  hurt. 
But  I  could  feel  myself  skidding,  and  I  hung  up  the  receiver 
and  flopped.  Silly  of  me.  The  station  matron  put  me  to  bed, 
Tilden  came  round  presently  and  mended  up  Jake's  work 
with  a  couple  of  stitches.  Jake  must  have  been  mad  when  he 
knew  what  he'd  missed  .  .  .  just  as  mad  with  me  as  Jim 
Palke  was  because  I'd  exceeded  instructions.  Gee!  If  the 
police  didn't  exceed  instructions  in  a  difficult  case,  murder 
would  be  cheaper  than  it  is." 

"That's  cold  truth,"  said  Palke.  "Our  business  is  securing 
the  malefactor  for  the  protection  of  the  citizen  and  I  care 
very  little  how  it's  done;  but  no  woman  has  the  right  to  put 
herself  in  the  way  of  a  bullet." 

Jane  laughed.  "A  scratch  like  that.**"  she  said,  and  lifted 
the  brown-gold  hair  that  was  waved  lower  over  her  forehead 
than  when  I  saw  her  last.  A  ragged  red  wheal,  newly  cica- 
trised, ran  back  along  the  white  of  her  temple  and  lost  itself 


CONCLUSION  279 

in  her  hair.  I  felt  Jenny  tremble  beside  me,  and  saw  Palke's 
jaw  set  tight.  As  for  me,  if  the  job  of  hanging  Maguire  had 
been  on  offer  just  then,  I  would  have  bid  for  it. 

"I  was  a  trifle  mad  about  it  myself,"  said  Jane,  "but  it 
doesn't  show  and  they  tell  me  I  can  get  it  skin-grafted.  Jake 
wasn't  so  good  after  all;  I  guess  he's  better  at  a  sitting  shot. 
But  nobody  knew  that  Elaine  Corbyn  was  living  except 
the  police— and  Tilden,  who  holds  appointment  as  police 
surgeon  to  the  Wheatbridge  station.  And  now  you  have  my 
report  on  the  Stanways  mystery.  Jim  came  round  to  see  me 
half  an  hour  later.  He  can  tell  you  the  rest." 

Palke  thrust  back  his  chair. 

"There's  very  little  for  me  to  add,"  he  said,  "except  this 
warning.  If  ever  you  feel  the  urge  to  go  gunning,  Rolfe, 
don't  shoot  a  poUceman.  The  others  will  never  stop  till 
they  get  you." 

"I  left  Begbie  to  hunt  out  the  will.  Begbie  had  it  in  his 
head  from  the  start  that  Lord  Trent  was  the  man  behind 
all  this  trouble.  Begbie  never  guessed  that  the  man  who  saw 
farther  through  the  case  than  anyone  up  to  then — was  Lord 
Trent.  Two  days  later,  with  his  help  and  Charlie  Flint's, 
we  pulled  Maguire  in." 

"The  information  from  New  York  D.C.L  only  began 
to  come  through  on  the  14th.  It  enabled  us  to  place 
Kathleen." 

"  'Linke'  was  the  key  to  it  all.  He  knew  about  the  Slade 
inheritance  and  his  brother  Michael's  marriage — and  he 
was  undoubtedly  the  man  who  originally  put  the  Maguires 
wise  to  it.  He  was  in  England  when  Slade  died.  The  Maguires 
passed  the  news  to  him  when  they  learned  that  Elaine  Corbyn 
was  coming  to  Stanways,  for  of  course  that  had  leaked  out. 
I  should  say  they  got  it  out  of  the  Vanneck  woman.  I  know 
nothing  against  her,  but  these  little  social  touts  will  sell 
anything  that's  saleable.  She  certainly  passed  a  paragraph 


28o  BLOOD    MONEY 

about  it  into  one  of  the  society  columns  that  she  contributes 
to,  spite  of  her  promise  to  Miss  Corbyn." 

"Linke's  speciality  was  blackmail,  not  murder;  and  when 
the  Maguires  shot  him  to  prevent  his  selling  them,  they 
killed  the  man  who  could  have  kept  them  on  the  right 
track.  They  don't  know  to  this  hour  that  they  went  after 
the  hawk  instead  of  the  pigeon,  but  if  Linke  had  been  at 
Stan  ways  when  the  guests  arrived  I've  no  doubt  he  would 
have  spotted  the  change-over  as  soon  as  he  saw  them. 
And  Jane  would  have  known  it,  and  marked  him  for  the 
man  she  wanted." 

"I  wonder  she  didn't  mark  me!"  said  I,  "the  way  I  fell 
for  Jenny  on  the  platform  at  Euston." 

Jane  Carthew  laughed. 

"I  saw  what  your  trouble  was,  you  big  tough!"  she  said. 
"I  suspected  you  of  a  good  many  things,  but  a  child  could 
size  you  up.  You  did  a  little  suspecting  yourself,  Ken. 
You  were  never  cut  out  for  a  sleuth,  but  after  being  mixed 
up  in  our  troubles  for  three  days  you  started  asking  yourself 
which  of  us  was  the  sure-enough  Corbyn.  Under  the 
circumstances  I  don't  see  how  you  could  have  missed  it. 
But  you  didn't  try  and  hide  it  up;  you  sprung  the  idea  on 
Jenny,  you  big  simp!  She  was  bound  not  to  give  herself 
away,  and  of  course  she  easily  pulled  you  straight  again." 

"  I  hated  lying  to  you,  Ken,"  said  Jenny.  "Did  I  do  it 
well?" 

"Perfectly!"  said  I.  "The  prettiest  bluff  I've  ever  seen. 
The  way  you  laughed,  before  melting  into  tears,  when  you 
said  you  only  wished  you  were  Elaine  Corbyn " 

"Well,  I  thought  I  was  Elaine  Power." 

"And  if  that  isn't  enough  to  melt  anybody  to  tears,  ring 
me  up  and  tell  me  what  is,"  said  Jane.  "A  girl's  tongue  is  a 
better  defence  to  her  than  a  Wesson  automatic,  and  if  your 
wife  doesn't  smooth  you  down  with  an  occasional  lie  you'll 


CONCLUSION  281 

have  a  thin  time  of  it,  Ken.  Jimmy  needn't  think  he'll  always 
get  the  truth  out  of  me  when  we're  married." 

I  turned  to  her  with  a  gasp  of  astonishment.  My  father 
smiled  at  me,  and  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"This  was  obvious  to  everybody  but  Ken!"  he  said. 
"My  congratulations,  Palke.  She  is  a  girl  in  a  thousand.  I  ve 
been  hoping,  Jane,  that  you  would  marry  me." 

Jane  laughed. 

"You  always  say  the  right  thing.  It  would  be  quite  attrac- 
tive to  be  Lady  Trent  of  Denham.  And  lucky  for  you  that  I'd 
rather  be  Mrs.  Inspector  Palke." 

"Mrs.  Ex-Inspector  Palke,"  said  Jimmy.  "I  am  retiring 
when  the  Linke  case  is  through  the  courts.  Jane  is  handing 
in  her  checks  at  the  D.C.I.  We're  both  a  little  tired  of 
discipline;  we  are  going  to  run  a  private  agency  in  Manhattan." 

"Jenny  is  staking  us.  We  might  find  you  a  job.  Lord  Trent, 
there  are  the  makings  of  a  very  sound  private  detective  in 
you,"  said  Jane.  "We've  nothing  to  offer  Ken;  he  couldn't 
detect  a  bass  drum  in  a  telephone  booth.  Well,  that's  my 
report.  All  clear?" 

"There's  one  black  piece  of  work  nobody  has  solved  yet," 
said  I.  "I'd  like  a  settlement  with  the  man  that  did  it.  Who 
sent  me  that  note  at  Euston  warning  me  off  Elaine  Corbyn 
under  penalty  of  death?  Neither  Power  nor  the  Maguires 
would  have  done  a  thing  like  that,  surely?" 

Jane  paused.  I  saw  her  eye  gleam  with  amusement  as  she 
glanced  at  my  father. 

"Lord  Trent,  I  believe." 

"She's  right,  as  usual,"  said  Dad,  and  shook  with 
laughter. 

"You?"  I  said,  staring  at  him. 

"Guilty,  Ken.  Before  you  got  to  Euston,  I  'phoned  a 
friend  in  town  to  scribble  that  message  and  get  it  passed  to 
you  on  the  arrival  platform— I  won't  tell  you  who  he  was 


282  BLOOD    MONEY 

as  I  don't  want  him  beaten  up.  He  thought  I  was  pulHng 
your  leg.  I  was  in  deadly  earnest — and  so  were  you  after 
you  got  that  note." 

"I've  known  you  twenty-seven  years  Ken;  your  obstinacy 
and  pig-headedness.  It  only  needed  a  threat  of  trouble  if  you 
meddled  with  the  mysterious  Miss  Corbyn,  to  start  you 
looking  for  it.  You  resented  her  coming  to  Stanways  and 
were  determined  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  her — you  were 
within  an  ace  of  bolting.  After  that  threat  nobody  could  have 
beaten  you  away  from  her  with  a  club.  It  worked  like  a  charm." 

"It  was  well  done,  Dad!"  said  Jenny,  laughing,  and  kissed 
him.  He  stroked  her  hair  affectionately,  and  nodding  to 
Jane  and  Palke,  shepherded  them  out. 

"You  two  will  have  something  more  attractive  to  talk 
about  than  crime,"  he  said  to  me  as  he  closed  the  door;  "if 
you  want  us  you'll  find  us  at  the  Savoy." 

"Didn't  Palke  tell  you  once,"  said  Jenny  as  I  drew  her 
down  into  the  arm-chair,  "that  you'd  need  all  the  sympathy 
you  could  get?  You're  going  to  get  it  now,  Ken.  .  .  ." 

I  have  had  it  ever  since. 


THE    END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  126  678     2 


